


Lonely is the Night

by Mrstserc



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 00:58:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1246717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrstserc/pseuds/Mrstserc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark of Cain story. Takes place after 9.14 (Captives) Dean drinks too much after Sam turns away from him. Castiel comes to his rescue and sees the Mark of Cain. I just needed to find a way to ease the pain of that ending a little. I do not own any rights to Supernatural or its characters. This story will continue, getting more AU most likely because it's my interpretation of how they could handle the Mark of Cain. Expect Sunday updates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Hunched over his laptop, amber liquid filling the glass beside it, Dean clicks on a link and snorts his derision. “Big Foot, yeah, right.” His muttering isn’t bothering anyone. Sam’s in the bunker’s library, so Dean’s in the kitchen. The physical separation has become the norm while their emotional divide continues, promises to the ghost of Kevin notwithstanding. The brothers are not on friendly terms – still not even brothers according to Sam.

But at least they are both here, Dean thinks, Kevin had that right. Dean can still keep an eye on Sam, plan hunts, be here if Cas needs help on his away mission to find Metatron. Be here if Crowley finds the First Blade. Be here so Sam doesn’t try to do something that’ll kill him while he looks for Gadreel and studies all Kevin’s notes on the demon and angel tablets.

In retrospect, it might have made sense to ask Mrs. Tran to stay. Maybe Kevin could have still been helpful, but Dean knows that would have been as selfish as his brother accused him of being. It would have been so he had someone to talk to, someone to help make the lonely days and nights pass more quickly. Mrs. Tran, just released from a year in captivity, needs to try to patch her life back together.

Dean gulps the rest of the whiskey in his glass and absent-mindedly scratches at the Mark of Cain on his forearm. His second thoughts about accepting the mark are trying to worm their way into his thoughts; his doubts scrabble away at the back of his mind where he refuses to think about them. Sam isn’t interested and he hasn’t seen Cas in months. Dean knocks over the bottle reaching for a refill, but catches it before it hits the ground. His heightened reflexes are something else he can probably attribute to the mark, so he won’t think about that either.

“Must be like the wall was for Sammy,” Dean mutters.

“Did you say something?” Sam slinks in through the doorway behind Dean, gives the bottle in Dean’s hand a disapproving look, and heads to the refrigerator to get a sports drink. “No.” Dean’s abrupt answer is an obvious lie, his default position, and Sam rolls his eyes before walking back out of the kitchen.

The older Winchester tries to shrug away how that look from the person he has spent his life caring for makes him feel. He scrubs at his stubble, so long now it can almost be considered a beard, and sits behind the computer again. Maybe checking out this so-called Big Foot sighting in San Antonio, Texas, would be diverting enough to keep his mind off everything. And, hey, it would be nice to be somewhere warm. The frigid shoulder he’s been getting from Sam seems to have settled into his bones, like the damp cold from the interminable snow storms this winter.

Squaring his shoulders and wincing a little under the pain from how tense they’ve been, Dean wanders into the library. “Okay, so, yeah, I said something.” Dean stammers, but he directs his opening toward his little brother (no matter what Sam says). “A, umm, Big Foot sighting by San Antonio. Want to check it out?”

Sam frowns at him and brushes his too long bangs out of his face. “Big Foot’s a hoax.” Sam’s hazel eyes are taking in his brother. What he sees is a little alarming, but Sam’s not ready to forgive Dean, not ready to let him know that he can see the remorse wrapped like a blanket around the crumbling form of the older man. Sorry won’t fix things, and no matter what Kevin said, forgiving and forgetting doesn’t come that easy. Besides Dean has already said he’d do it again. Sam can’t forgive what Dean doesn’t even acknowledge as a fault.

“San Antonio is warm and doesn’t have all this frikking snow.” Dean counters, growling out the words to help hide the neediness he feels.

“You’re just looking for a distraction.” Sam’s face is pinched as he glares at Dean. “We have more important things to do, but if you don’t want to help then just go. I don’t need you here.” Sam’s statement is bitter, purposefully punishing, like he has been since he realized Dean tricked him into accepting Gadreel into him. “I’ll keep trying to find Gadreel and find a way to reopen Heaven without you.”

Dean sighs as he scratches at his marked arm, and Sam sneaks a peek at the strange marking again. He wants to ask about it, but he doesn’t want to let down his emotional wall yet – the Great Wall of Anger, Sam thinks to himself. But he’s entitled to be angry. Dean screwed up massively, and refuses to see beyond the fact that Sam is still alive.

The older Winchester needs to stop trying to control him, Sam thinks, folding his arms against his own curiosity and concern. No matter how much Dean sinks into harmful behaviors, no matter how bad he looks from drinking too much and sleeping too little, Sam is not giving in until he’s sure Dean actually understands how wrong he was.

“You want to drive, what? A thousand miles? To check on a hoax?” 

“It’s only eight hundred.”

Sam snorts, disdain written on his face. “I’ll pass.” Sam’s ready for a fight. He’s puffed up and going to verbally take Dean down if he argues. What he’s not prepared for is Dean to shrug and turn away. “And you can’t go now because you’re drunk and haven’t slept.” Sam’s still aching for the fight because Dean should fight, but his brother barely pauses for a moment before shuffling away.

Sam has a view of the outside door from his place at the library table, and he keeps watching in case Dean tries to sneak out. He checked the kitchen, but Dean has taken his computer and retreated, probably to his room. It’s worrisome how quiet, withdrawn, and miserable his brother looks, but Sam figures Dean’s just trying to break him with his mopey act –and Dean doesn’t deserve sympathy. He opens the next volume of Zimmerman’s Encyclopedia of Dead Languages to continue working.

In his bedroom, Dean drinks straight from a fresh whiskey bottle, giving up the glass as an unnecessary go between. He stumbles toward his bed wondering if he’s drunk enough to sleep yet.  His stomach rumbles and he tries to remember when he ate last and can’t. He stumbles again then falls, but his stomach is still growling and he feels so cold. He curls onto his side right before he starts vomiting. “Cas, I need you.” Dean whispers in desperation as he passes out.

\- - - - - -  - - - -  -

Sam raises his head and wipes the drool from his mouth, blinking away sleep while he reorients himself. The bunker.  Library. Must have fallen asleep. He hears knocking on the door again and realizes that is what woke him. Glancing at his watch as he shoves himself up from the (obviously too comfortable) leather chair, Sam takes a moment to be glad that what woke him is someone wanting in, not his drunk brother sneaking out. But it’s hours later, just past sunrise.  “Who is it?” Sam croaks at the door, wishing again that he had installed a security camera. He recognizes the gravelly voice of Castiel, unlocks and pulls open the door. “Hey Cas, what’s up?”

Castiel squints at Sam. “The sun? You?” He’s fumbling to answer the question he doesn’t understand, and he frowns when he hears Sam stifle a chuckle. “That is of no importance, Sam. I am here because I heard your brother’s prayer. Where is Dean?”

“Dean?” Sam’s mind is still sleepy and Cas is talking too fast.

“Your brother?” The angel responds curtly. The tall young man stands a fraction of time too long blinking in surprise. Castiel pushes past him and heads toward the sleeping corridor. Castiel knows his way around from his previous visits and he makes his way to Room 22, opening the door. Sam has followed closely enough behind that he hears the angel muttering angrily in Enochian.

The smell hits first. Vomit surrounds Dean who is passed out on the floor, whiskey bottle not far away. Castiel turns toward Sam. “Help me get him up.”

Sam scowls and there’s an angry edge to his voice when he answers the angel. “Why should I? He got himself into this predicament. When he wakes up, he can get himself cleaned up. I’m not going to baby him.”

Intense blue eyes stare almost through Sam, but Cas doesn’t say anything at first. Sam is firmly pushed out of the room by the angel’s grace, though, and the door closes on his surprised face. “Then go.” Cas growls at him.

“He’s just trying to get my sympathy.” Sam says through the door. “He’s trying to make me forgive him for what he did.”

Cas kneels by Dean’s limp body, sensing the amount of damage Dean has done to himself with alcohol poisoning, and frowning because there is something dark in Dean. Something that was not there last time Castiel saw him. But the angel has been listening to Sam as he continued to blast his anger at his brother. Castiel shakes his head and glares at the door before replying. “I thought we spoke of this and that you realized that much of what you claim to be angry about was in part choices you made together.”

The dark haired angel stands and removes his coat, draping it over Dean’s bed. He looks around the room and collects Dean’s toiletries before stooping down and lifting Dean into his arms. Castiel walks past Sam toward the rest room.

Still leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest, Sam snorts. “I’m not cleaning up his mess.”

“I did not expect that you would, Sam.” Cas’s voice is gentler than Sam expected it would be. “But I would appreciate it if you would gather a bucket of soapy water and some rags. After I have cleaned Dean up and gotten him warm again, I will do that. I learned how when I worked in the service station.”

Sam nods and turns to go, but he hesitates. “He’s going to be alright isn’t he?”

Castiel sighs loudly. “He drank enough to poison his body, but worse, I feel some sort of darkness on his soul that I know was not there before.” He raises a questioning eyebrow at Sam who realizes that Cas does not yet know about the Mark of Cain.

“About that…” Sam starts, rubs his hand along his scruffy chin. “He should have talked to you.” Sam still refuses to meet Cas’s eyes  as he turns. “But I guess you’ll know soon enough. I’ll go get the bucket.”

Castiel moves along the hallway into the shower room where he props Dean gently on the bench before turning to the closest shower, turning it and adjusting the temperature. While the water warms, Cas collects big towels and places them nearby. He looks at Dean’s vomit marked clothing and decides they could use to be washed too, so he decides the boots are the only things that must be removed before Dean is held under the spray.

Angel strength is useful as Cas holds the hunter’s limp body under the spray, and it doesn’t take long before Dean wakes and struggles. Cas continues to hold him in place letting the water sluice over him until he is cleaned of the remaining vomit. “Are you fully awake now?” Castiel asks as he slowly releases Dean and walks to the bench where he left Dean’s soap and shampoo.

“Cas? What…?” Dean’s brain is beginning to function again. “I’m sorry, man. I kinda remember calling for you, and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

“We’ll speak of this later.” Cas hands Dean the soaps. “Get cleaned up and out of the wet clothes. We will talk in your room.”

While Dean begins to struggle out of wet clothes, Cas goes down to his room, taking the bucket from where Sam left it and cleaning. He takes the whiskey and the bucket to the kitchen where he dumps them both down the sink. When he starts going through the cabinets and refrigerator gathering other bottles and cans of beer, Sam walks in to watch him.

“That won’t stop him, you know. Not for long.”

Castiel turns to glare at Sam. “When you were addicted to demon blood, your brother did what was needed to help you.” Sam shrugs. “Cas, this is different.”

“How so? You were doing harmful things to yourself and your brother stepped in to stop you. How, then, is it different to intervene and keep Dean from killing himself? I healed some of the damage, but he was on the point of not waking up again, Sam. Angry as you are at him, are you willing to watch him die?”

Not giving Sam a chance to answer right then, Castiel storms back out of the kitchen, heading back to the sleeping quarters,

Dean has pulled on clean jeans and is toweling his hair when Castiel storms back into the room with an angry glint in his eyes. The hunter turns to toss the towel on the back of the chair and pick up his gray Henley when he hears Castiel hiss. Dean spins off balance, but is held in place as the angel holds his lower arms.

“What have you done?” Castiel’s voice is dangerous and his hold is painfully tight. Dean’s eyes widen as he tugs, trying to get loose from the angry Seraph. Castiel shakes Dean, and for a moment Dean is sure he is going to be pummeled before Cas pushes him away. Dean’s legs hit his bed and he sits, head bowed, trying to think of what to say. He tries to clear his throat, but his voice still sounds as though he has ground glass in it.

Dean glances up, but he is too embarrassed to maintain eye contact. “I… uh…”

Castiel cuts him off. “Do you know what that mark is? What it says?” He demands, and Dean shakes his head. “Do you know that it makes you anathema? Dedicates you, the Righteous man, to evil? Marks you as Lucifer’s?”

“No.” Dean whispers, still not raising his head. “I just knew it would help me defeat Abaddon.”

“Who told you that?” Castiel is somehow looming over Dean, and the hunter’s voice is so low that only the angel’s superior hearing allows him to hear Dean admit it was Crowley. Castiel closes his eyes and tries to think through his shock. His hand reaches for Dean who flinches, but Cas ignores that until his hand cradles the side of Dean’s face.

“Look at me,” the angel demands, and Dean steels himself before slowly lifting his eyes. He expects to find condemnation, anger, scorn. Instead Castiel’s blue eyes are filled with understanding, concern, and love.

“I won’t let you fall, Dean. I won’t let this determine your destiny. We’ll figure it out.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Sam, can I ask you, please, to get your brother some water?” Castiel is careful to keep his tone neutral. “I have healed the liver, but he needs to flush the alcohol from his system.” Cas knows Sam is still angry at Dean, but he also knows that Sam does care. The taller man was stricken when Castiel told him his brother had poisoned his body. He hears Sam grunt a response and walk away.

Head tilted, Castiel studies the bowed figure on the bed, still drunk enough to be tilted and sick enough to be listless, the older of the Winchester brother is a mess. His whiskers are grown in enough to almost qualify as a beard. His hair is spiking out in several directions. His eyes are blood-shot and glassy, squinting at him from a brow furrowed in pain, long lashes unable to hide the dark circles from lack of sleep. Castiel cannot remember a time Dean had looked so defeated, and he had watched him give up on the world and on himself during the Apocalypse.

The angel wonders if this decay stems from his turmoil with his brother, or if the mark of Cain is stealing away the brilliant light of Dean’s soul.

When Dean begins shivering, Cas lifts his overcoat from the bed and drapes it over the hunter. Dean huddles into the coat, managing to look even more dejected. It makes it harder for the angel to do what he has determined needs to be done because any criticism of Dean right now will seem harsh; Dean is so broken-hearted. Expecting much from him right now would be like filling a cracked pitcher and blaming it if it leaked.

Cas has to straighten his shoulders in determination. “When have dealings with Crowley ever worked out well for us?” Castiel’s low voice growls out, demanding an answer from the older Winchester. When Dean doesn’t raise his eyes or answer, Castiel reaches for his chin and turns the listless hunter to face him, trying to judge how intoxicated the hunter still is.

“Right…” Dean mutters, jerking his head away. “You’re right.”

Castiel sighs heavily and rolls his eyes. “Dean, we really do not have time for this. And perhaps not for recriminations either. Tell me what you learned about this, this, abomination. This mark you accepted.”

Bobbing his head like his neck is on springs, Dean apologizes again. “Right, m’sorry. Kevin said itsa pity party.”

“I wish you would stay on topic.” Castiel cut him off. “What does Kevin have to do with it? He’s dead. And as I’ve told you before, not everything is your fault.”

A suspiciously wet chuckle escapes Dean and he mumbles. “Kevin haunts me. S’my fault he’s dead.” His words end with a hiccup before he adds. “I don’t feel s’good.”

“Good. You should feel sick.” Sam shoots words at his brother as he stomps over to the bed and thrusts the glass of water at him. “Drink this.” Contrary to his tone, Sam gently helps Dean guide the cup in his shaking hands to his mouth. “C’mon, Dean, you needs water. Drink up.”

Sam crouches in front of his older brother, his eyes raking over Dean noting every aspect of his appearance, but he stiffens his resolve. “You kind of deserve to feel like shit right now.”

“Enough!” Castiel’s tone reminds Sam of the last time the angel told him to stow his crap, and the taller man glares at him.

“Maybe instead of trying to make us stop talking, you should let us work things out. Maybe you should stop trying to protect Dean when he’s the one to blame for what he’s doing to himself. He’s turning into a drunk, like our old man. And instead of talking things through, he keeps trying to run away – to different rooms even if he doesn’t leave the bunker.” Sam slowly stands up as he confronts Castiel, and the angel rises off the bed, somehow maintaining a posture of being nose-to-nose with Sam regardless of the six-inch height difference.

“Maybe once you have a man down, you should stop kicking him.” Castiel’s eyes are burning with anger at Sam, but before other words can be exchanged Dean lurches off the bed to stand swaying between them.

“S’okay, Cas. Sammy’s right. S’all my fault.” He reaches out as if to push Cas back from his brother. “Sam, s’okay. I’m leaving.”

It’s Sam’s turn to roll his eyes as he grabs his brother by his wavering shoulders and moves him back to the bed. “You are a huge pain my ass and you can’t go anywhere right now, jerk. Sleep it off. You can go searching for Big Foot later.”

Between Sam and Cas they get Dean lowered onto his bed where he groans and rolls into a ball. “I can take him with me, Sam. I have a car and some help from other angels now. We will not hunt Big Foot because I heard an NPR report that he was captured and killed in Texas recently, but we can help him through a detoxification.” Castiel’s moving things around in Dean’s room, standing up a cross and straightening the few remaining pieces of Dean’s treasures.

The fact that there’s so little out hits Sam. He turns slowly noticing that Dean’s weapon collection is no longer displayed, the vinyl albums packed away, even Dean’s picture of their mother is gone. Dean must be serious about leaving, and that pisses Sam off. “He must seriously be planning to take off without us working things out! The…” Sam chokes off in anger with a huff. He turns away, missing Castiel’s narrowed eyes and calculating look.

“I will not be able to stay right now, Sam. Your brother will need constant supervision while his body breaks from the physical alcohol addiction. If you do not want me to take him with me, you will have to do it yourself.” Castiel’s voice is very casual as the angel uses some of the skills he honed when he had last lied to and manipulated the brothers.

Sam turns toward him. “We could…” He frowns, worry lines etched deeply in his forehead. “We could make him comfortable and, and lock him in the dungeon. Kind of like he did to me when I was addicted to demon blood?”

Castiel turns and catches his eye. “I was there.” Sam ducks his head in acknowledgement and then has to sweep his hair out of his face when he lifts it again.

“We can make sure he’s comfortable. Bring down a sleeping bag. Plenty of water.” Sam’s thinking things through as he speaks. “The original detox is seventy-two hours. We can make him comfortable and secure. Make sure he can’t hurt himself, or me.” Castiel nods. And Sam continues a little less assuredly. “We may have to use the shackles.”

“If you’d like to begin moving things to the dungeon, I will stay to make sure your brother does not choke on vomit or fall trying to get up.” While Sam bustled through the bunker gathering things and placing them in the dungeon, Castiel sat watching Dean and wishing he could talk to him.

When Sam walks back into the room, Castiel lifts Dean and follows him down through the storage room and into the dungeon that had so recently been used to hold Crowley. He stands by the door and looks at the preparations.

The dark gray walls were bare of everything, even the wall shackles were removed leaving only the iron rings. The room is lit by a weak florescent ceiling fixture, too far away to be reached even if someone stood on the metal table that sits against the wall with a case of bottled water, container of protein bars, and plastic bag full of apples on it. Inside the devil’s trap engraved in the center of the floor Sam had set up a sleeping pallet. He had used the wall chains to lengthen the set of leg shackles bound to the floor so that Dean would be able to move around inside, but not long enough to reach the doorway.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve fixed it so he won’t be able to hurt himself.” Sam’s eyes sweep the stark room. It contains less than most prison cells, but has similarities including an attached metal sink and toilet. “What do you think, Cas?”

The angel moved toward the pallet and placed Dean down. “I think we need more bedding, another sleeping bag, a couple pillows, warm socks and shirts, and some towels. There’s no sense in making things even more uncomfortable than they have to be. Give me the key and I will get him locked in while he’s asleep. I want to check to make sure he doesn’t have any weapons on him.”

“Yeah,” Sam sighs and runs his hand anxiously through his hair. “Dean’s going to be pretty pissed off. But the research I’ve read said the physical addiction can be broken with three days of abstinence. Since you fixed his liver, there shouldn’t be anything life threatening, just things like fever, chills, sweats, and headache. And he won’t be completely alone. I’ll check on him.”

Returning again, Sam stops in the doorway and watches as Cas kneels next to Dean, positioning him carefully and covering him with blankets. Sam walks past and sets the rest of the bedding on the table. “Do you want to pick him up while I add these?” Sam asks as he turns around to find Castiel right behind him, reaching to brush two fingers across his forehead.

When Sam wakes up again, he finds he too is shackled to the floor in a pallet next to his brother. Castiel is standing near the exit out of reach.

“Good. You’re awake, Sam.” The angel says matter-of-factly. “I didn’t want to leave without talking to you. I decided you and Dean do need time to talk out your differences, and this should be uninterrupted enough.” Castiel’s hands make air quotes as he throws some of Sam’s words from earlier back at him. “I will not be here to ‘protect’ him, and neither of you will be able to run ‘away.’”

 Sam lunges toward the angel, but even his long arms do not allow him to reach. “You can’t do this.” He shouts furiously. “You cannot leave me locked up with my brother in a dungeon.”

Pocketing the key, Castiel shrugs one shoulder and answers a little smugly. “I think I just did.” He waits by the door quietly until Sam sputters to a halt in the string of objections and threats.

“I will be leaving, locking this door and the bunker on my way out. I will return as quickly as I can because I am uncomfortable leaving you trapped without a means of rescue, but there are a few other angels who are relying on me to help reopen heaven and overthrow Metatron. I wanted to talk to you about bringing them here, Sam. They could help research and you could help teach them how to blend in with humanity.”  Castiel shifts a bit uneasily. “I will understand, given the recent circumstances, if you are not comfortable around angels…”

“You mean because you’re locking me and my brother in the dungeon?” Sam grinds out through a too tense jaw.

Castiel tilts his head. “I am only responsible for adding you into a plan you had put in place for your brother, Sam. And, no, I wasn’t thinking about this. I meant Gadreel.”

Sam’s sigh is long and loud, air hissing through his teeth as he considers the angel. “You’re vouching for them? You’re sure they’re on our side?” When Cas nods, Sam continues. “Well then, you’d better go get them and hurry back. I don’t want to end up as a skeleton in a dungeon because you get lost along with the only key to the bunker. But, we have to trust someone, sometime. We’ve run pretty short on allies.”

 


	3. Lonely is the Night 3

Every joint in his body aches, and that’s the first thing Dean realizes as he reaches awareness. He starts trying to gather thoughts and memories into patterns that make sense. Where is he? Why does he feel so crappy? Was he beaten up? And then the thought that makes him sit straight up, fear shooting through him.

“Sam?” Dean looks around through bleary, bloodshot eyes. That panic is short lived when he realizes his brother is sitting on a sleeping bag right next to him. Then Dean starts to notice other things. They are in the Men of Letters dungeon. There’s a chain around his ankle, and Sam is glaring at him. But since Dean doesn’t see any injuries on Sam, and that angry look in his tilted hazel eyes is the only way Sam has looked at him in months, he doesn’t say anything else.

“Well, Dean?” Sam has got to be making his voice as obnoxious as he possibly can. Dean feels the syllables scrapping along his nerves like they’re clawing his insides and opening wounds. He buries his face into hands, drawing up his knees to hide in.

Sam watches Dean curl into himself and snorts. So appropriate – the turtle posture, hiding from his brother – it’s not even second-nature to his older brother, it’s the first thing he does. And while it pisses Sam off, he takes pity on the hunched form enough to get up and grab a bottle of water and protein bar from the table. He thrusts them at Dean. “There. Hydrate and get something in your stomach before we talk. Angel of the Lord Castiel has decided we need to be locked up together until we do, and all you’ve done for the last ten hours is sleep.”

Dean looks up and croaks a plea. “Aspirin?”

The older Winchester looks so miserable that Sam keeps his mouth shut as he walks back to the table, leg shackle clanking slightly on the concrete floor and returns with two Excedrin tablets which his brother swallows, chasing them down with the rest of the water. Sam makes the trip a third time, handing Dean another water. “Drink up, you’re probably dehydrated and that won’t help the headache.” Then Sam sits down to wait until the pills help relieve some of the pain from his brother’s face. Dean’s not going anywhere. Sam can wait.

\- - - - - - - - - - - -

Right after Castiel killed Bartholomew, he was joined by three angels who said they too wanted to follow a path that would return all the angels to Heaven without in-fighting and power struggles. Since then, several more had joined, and it started to become more difficult for Cas to coordinate. Better versed in modern human ways and technology than most of his brothers and sisters, Cas encouraged them to blend into society. But there was a problem, no matter how carefully they researched most human libraries had little in the way of helpful information. That was why Castiel arranged with Sam to bring some of the angels to the bunker. The Men of Letters has a more complete reference library than anywhere short of the Vatican.

After leaving Sam and Dean in the bunker dungeon, Cas chose three of his followers to relocate to the Men of Letters bunker in North Central Kansas. He was careful to pick brethren from the Spheres of the Heavenly Host, Powers and Principalities, not only Seraphim. He chose Joel, a Power who had been Keeper of History and whose last brush with humanity was helping Adam name the species of animals. Joel inhabited the body of a Benedictine Monk, a portly middle-aged man who had been overjoyed to have his faith justified. At the monastery, the monk had been a cook. Joel agreed to be a caretaker of the Winchesters while searching old records.

Barbiel was a Principality, an angel tasked with cataloging and assigning blessings who had never before been on Earth in person. Her vessel was a retired research librarian from a large city; she was thin and gray-haired with a mind sharper than expected.  They suited each other, and Barbiel would lead the research efforts.

The third angel was a warrior, a Seraph older than Castiel. Mathiel, the Angel of Tuesday, had once been the patron of Decisive Action. He had been recalled from the Earth Garrison to help Michael after Lucifer’s fall. He had become more and more withdrawn after years of Heavenly battles. Castiel had been leery at first, but Mathiel assured him that having lived through the upheavals created by feuding Archangels all he wanted was a return of peace for the depleted host of angels.

Mathiel’s vessel was a homeless Marine veteran suffering PTSD from four tours of duty. He’d given over his body even while he wasn’t sure whether he was having a mental breakdown. Mathiel felt sorry for him, knowing too well the symptoms of battle fatigue. His job would be to guard the others in case of any attack and to help Castiel plan the take-back of Heaven.

Castiel gathered the trio and headed back to the bunker, stopping along the way to pick up food and household supplies for Sam and Dean. While driving the empty miles of highway, he filled the angels in on what to expect of the Winchesters, of Sam’s horror at the recent betrayal of Gadreel who was working with Metatron, and of how broken Dean, the Righteous Man, had become. Then he unleashed the most shocking news, Dean had accepted the Mark of Cain from the founder of the Knights of Hell and was collaborating with Crowley to kill Abaddon.

“Right now, I have them both locked in the dungeon, but I do not intend for them to remain prisoners. They are often like Michael and Lucifer in that they love each other and fight furiously. I am giving them time to work through some differences while Dean detoxes from abusing alcohol.” Castiel does not see the looks exchanged amongst the others as he steers the car through the latest Kansas snowstorm. If he had seen, he might have turned around.

\- - - - - - - - - - - -

When Dean gets up, he washes up as best as he can, searches for any overlooked item that can be used to pick the lock on the leg shackles, and finally gives up and returns to his pallet, shivering worse than Sam thinks is warranted by the slightly chilly temperature in the dungeon. He’s not surprised when Dean grabs the extra blankets from the table. “Here, Sam.” Dean tosses him one of the blankets, but Sam sets it down next to him. It’s a time between Dean too out of it to talk and too sick from detoxing to make sense. It’s time to talk.

“Are you ready to get this all out in the open, Dean?” Sam has spent the last few hours he has been awake planning what he needs to say and what he hopes to hear in return.

Dean shrugs and spreads his hands, palms up. “I’m not apologizing for saving your life, Sam, and I don’t know what else you want from me. If you want to talk, start there. I’m a captive audience.”

Sam snorts and begins counting to ten inside. It really is amazing how easily Dean can piss him off. “Okay, Dean, it’s not just about what you did; it’s about how you did it, how that makes me feel, and how you lied to cover up what you did.” He’s starting to build steam. “And you still won’t admit that you did anything wrong.”

Dean shifts slightly to turn more toward his brother. He catches his eye. “I am sorry that I couldn’t think of any other way to save your life, okay? And I’m sorry Gadreel turned out to be a douchebag, but I’m not sorry that I did it. I’d rather you be pissed off at me, and be alive, than to have you dead.” Dean’s voice is a little harsh, but he’s trying to infuse the words with feeling, and Sam can tell.

“That’s like being sorry you got caught!” Sam lets his anger boil over a little. “You’re refusing to admit you did anything wrong, and you’re still missing the point.” He gets up to pace but there’s not much point when he can only move six steps in any direction. He rakes his hand through his hair and tries to remember how he planned to word this discussion. His older brother always manages to throw him off somehow.

Dean has his head in his hand, rubbing against his furrowed brow, but Sam decides headache or not, Dean needs to hear this. Time hasn’t helped him figure it out on his own. “If you look back on our worst mistakes, it’s always the same thing. Every time. You sold your soul to bring me back to life. You wouldn’t let the angels kill me to stop the Apocalypse. You insisted on dealing with Death to get my soul back. You let Castiel sacrifice himself to get my sanity back. You go to crazy lengths to keep me alive, and people die because of it, Dean, and that weighs on me.”

Sam stops in front of Dean and stoops down to make sure his brother is listening. “Kevin, Dean. Kevin died this time. The kid I had already betrayed once by forgetting about him and leaving him out to hang when you went to Purgatory. Kevin! A kid I already owed. Do you know how that makes me feel?”

Every time Sam said Kevin’s name, he saw Dean flinch, so he’s not surprised when Dean answers. “Kevin’s on me, Sam. Not you.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Kevin’s on both of us. And he’s not the only one.” He stands up and walks as far away as his chain allows, then he turns back. “My death would have closed Hell.”

“You don’t know that!” Dean springs to his feet and closes the gap between them, standing toe-to-toe with his brother. “We’d already left the church. You hadn’t said the spell. Your death wouldn’t have completed the ritual, and you’d be dead.”

Bitingly, Sam repeats back part of what Dean said, “My death would have just made me dead? Do you even listen to yourself?” He watches as Dean’s face turns red, but isn’t really surprised that Dean doesn’t lose his fighting stance. “Wasn’t that my choice to make, Dean? If I’m tired of fighting, tired of losing, don’t I get a say? And even then, don’t I deserve to know what you sacrificed to save me instead of being lied to.”

Dean throws up his hands. “Sam, if you want out, go. Go find someone and make fat babies and live your apple pie life. I don’t even care if you never forgive me because I can live with that as long as you’re alive somewhere.”

 “The lying is the worst part. We were finally starting to be real brothers again, and we promised to stop lying to each other. Want to explain why you lied?”

Dean looks at him and ducks his head, biting his lip, and turning away. “Will it make a difference? Won’t change the fact that I lied, but if it makes you feel better, I’ll tell you. Once I got you to say yes, Gadreel wouldn’t let me tell you. He kept intercepting me.” Then Dean looks up again, eyes blazing. “But I’m not trying to excuse myself. I figured you being pissed off at me was better than you being dead.”

Sam stands there shaking his head. “Lies and secrets. How am I supposed to trust you?” Then he strikes where he knows his brother is weak. “You know, you’re basically a coward. You do whatever you want and try to hide from the consequences. You’re too scared to take a chance at a normal life, at loving someone else, so you think you can live through me. You hide from your feelings and try to live in a bottle, just like dad.”

“You treat me a lot like you treated dad.” Dean turns to spear his brother with a look, like the thought had just occurred to him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sam has just about had it with Dean. He’s still standing there, and now he’s opening and closing his fists, ready to beat some sense into his brother. Dean’s eyes trace down Sam’s arm, and he watches as Sam’s fists give away his aggravation. But Dean shakes his head. He doesn’t want this to end in a fight, and he wants more time to consider what he just said to his brother. Years of watching Sammy fight with Dad should give him some idea of how to deal with this.

But years of reading his emotionally constipated brother gives Sam an advantage. He frequently understands what Dean is saying before Dean can completely verbalize it. “Oh, no you don’t. You don’t get to throw shit like that out and shut down. If I’m acting like you’re Dad, it’s because you’re acting like him.”

“So you’re going through your second childhood?” Dean barely gets the snarky words out before Sam punches him square in the face. Dean’s nose spurts blood as he ducks under Sam’s arm to bring him down with a wrestling move. Boxing with Sam has always given Sam an advantage because of his long reach, but on the ground they are more closely matched, especially now that Sam is healthy.

Wrestling on the ground, Sam flips Dean and then Dean flips Sam, and before either one can do much more, they realize that their chains are tangled. “Stop, Sam, stop!” Dean calls out. “You’re breaking my damned ankle.”

“I ought to break your damned thick head.” Sam gasps out, having just taken a rib to his solar plexus. Then he turns. Completely outraged, Sam realizes that his brother has erupted in laughter, making horrible choking noises as he tries to hide it. He reaches out and pokes him hard in the side. “Stop it. This isn’t funny.”

Dean chokes back more laughter as he sits up and wipes his bloody nose on the sleeve of his shirt. He tries to move, but his leg is tied next to Sam’s, so he starts trying to figure out who needs to move where to get them untangled. Dean’s cat’s eyes sweep over his brother, checking for injuries.

“Dad always used to say that, you know. ‘I ought to break your damned head open so I can shove some sense into you.’” Dean says in a good imitation of John Winchester. “You know, stuff like that. Or maybe you don’t because I don’t remember him ever saying that to you. Guess he never thought you were a thick-headed idiot.”

With three moves, Dean has them completely untangled. “He always used to get mad and give me the silent treatment, too.” Dean explains. “Or hit me.”

Sam moves over to his sleeping bag a little gingerly because Dean got some shots in, and he fights dirty. He looks over at his brother who is still using his sleeve to wipe blood from his face and gives a noisy sigh. Sam gets up and grabs a towel and bottle of water. He moves over to Dean and pushes his arm out of the way. “I need to set that. Get your hand out of the way.”

After Sam wipes the blood from Dean’s face and fixes the nose, he shakes his head. “You’re gonna have a black eye. Damnit. Cas will probably kill me. He locked us in here so we could talk and I could help nurse you through a detox, not so I could beat you up.”

“You mean a hangover.”

“Nope. A detox. We’ve decided you need to stop drinking before you kill yourself.”

Dean snorts, and that makes him choke, but so does the fact that’s he’s chuckling again.

“What?” Sam sits back on his heels.

“Umm, do you even hear yourself, Sam.” Dean stutters out through his laughter which has him holding his abused ribs in pain and sends tears streaming down his face. “Can’t you…can’t you hear the irony? I can’t kill myself drinking, but…but you can kill yourself. You…you’re supposed to be allowed to make your own ch…choices, but I get locked in the dungeon for my own good. God, it’s all so…so dad.”

“Shut up, Jerk. And just so you know, this isn’t over.” But Sam has plenty to think about. Maybe Dean wasn’t the only one acting too much like John Winchester around here. Maybe Sam was equally as guilty of that.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Who knew Dean’d long for the return to the days of silent treatment?

After months of his brother’s passive-aggressive sniping, and complete weeks with no words passing between them to the point that Dean would blast music through his head-phones just to block out the silence and the loneliness. After months of sporadic arguments and occasional brow-beating from Sam, and no amount of apologies making a difference, Dean is sorry he hurt his brother, but not sorry enough to wish him dead. And he’s tired of having his apologies thrown back in his face.

Dean’s relief at getting Sam to talk to him takes a bad turn the second day the boys spend in the dungeon. It’s bad enough, in the older brother’s opinion, that Sam conspired with Castiel to incarcerate him, but the ongoing alcohol intervention Sam’s subjecting Dean to makes him want to hit someone, and Sam is the only one around.

He hears his brother talking about John Winchester’s drinking and he bites his tongue. He listens while Sam berates Bobby as an alcoholic who influenced Dean. And he knows he’s been drinking too much, but it helps a little. It dulls the pain of their estrangement and helps him sleep. He sure didn’t mean for it to be taken as a sign he’s suicidal or a “cry for help.”

The Winchesters are dirty from lack of showering, scruffy from lack of razors, hungry from being fed on power bars, sore from sleeping on pallets on the floor, and short-tempered from enforced proximity. And Dean wants to but can’t physically beat on his little brother. He just can’t - however much the idea may itch under his skin – although it sure feels like Sam is trying verbally to cut him to pieces. Sam has carped about his drinking, his lying, his hiding things, about his usurping Sam’s life choices; and to Dean, whose head is pounding, about every damn thing under the sun. Dean moves as far away physically as he can get from his brother while tethered to the floor.

“…And then you drink because it’s not healthy to bury your feelings to the point that you don’t even recognize them.” Sam pauses for breath, and Dean erupts into an aggressive answer.

“What the hell are you even talking about, Sam? I’ve got feelings. I just have to hide them from you sometimes.” Dean fixes a glare at his brother but holds himself physically in place.

Sam snorts and tosses his head, but he’s glad to get some kind of reaction. It’s not hard to tell when Dean is tuning him out like he has been at least half their waking hours in the dungeon. “You hide them from yourself, you mean! I bet you couldn’t even name what you’re feeling half the time!”

The anger wells up, harder to control each day since he accepted Cain’s mark, and Dean beats it down, swallows it, tries to bury it before it surfaces. His face darkens, normally full lips thinning in a grimace. He practically growls at his brother, “Give me some credit, Sam. I think I know what I’m feeling.”

“Give you credit? Give you credit! Like you give me credit for making my own choices?” Sam leans forward like he’s going to get closer, but backs off after getting a good look at his brother’s face. Sam realizes he’s actually afraid, for the first time in his life, not for his brother, but of him. He flounders for a moment, but he realizes that his anger is gone. Confusion has crept in. “I feel like I don’t even know you anymore.”

“Well, that’s swell, because you know what, Sam? I don’t even know what you expect from me anymore. I can’t fix what I did, and I can’t undo it. And I don’t even want to, and I’m getting damn tired of guessing about how you want me to act, or what you want me to say!”

Sam’s hazel eyes, so filled with anger before begin to look worried, and he wishes Castiel had left a few of his research books with them because maybe it’s time to rethink their priorities. Reopening Heaven is important, both to send the angels home and open the gates for the souls trapped in the veil, and he still wants to send the demons home and defeat Abaddon, but it seems like the Mark is affecting Dean more than his brother admits.

How could Dean have tried to conceal the real effects of the mark he accepted from the Father of Murder? Ha! Dean hiding things from Sam, he thinks, well it’s not the first time his brother has tried. Sam fumes inside, wondering how bad things will have to get before Dean comes clean.

    - -  -  -  -  -  -  -

“Brother, is there anything we need to know about these Winchesters? Any orders as far as how we treat them?” Barbiel, having the least experience with humankind, wants Castiel to make the situation as clear as possible, and the slow method of traveling in an automobile gives the group of angels plenty of time to talk.

Castiel considers before answering, carefully steering the big Lincoln along an almost empty Kansas road. “Dean and Sam Winchester, rightfully, have some resentment about being used by Heaven and Hell during the almost Apocalypse. Almost everyone they have ever known or loved has been killed in our wars, parents, family members, friends. The brothers do not trust easily, not even angels. You should remember that our interference in their lives dates back to orders to Cupids to bring their parents together. And lately, Gadreel deceived them.”

The dark-haired Seraph continues to drive while lost in thought for a minute. “Barbiel, you will most likely be working more with Sam than Dean. Sam has a scholarly nature although he can be quite fierce.” He gives a big sigh. “I am afraid I prejudged him when I first met him based on Azazel tainting his blood as an infant, but he is my friend. I do not believe Sam is a happy person right now, and he will be annoyed that I locked him in the dungeon with his brother.” The other angels do not know what an understatement that is.

Castiel turns toward Mathiel. “Dean is a warrior, and as older brother he is protective of, well, anyone he deems needs his protection. He has been drinking too much of late, and he will not be pleased that I have removed all alcohol from the bunker. We may need to restrain him from leaving. Please do not hurt him.” A pause. “And don’t underestimate him, his dislike of research does not mean he is less intelligent than his brother.” Castiel shakes his head, “But he has done something very stupid recently by allowing himself to be manipulated by Crowley into accepting the Mark of Cain.”

“Do not underestimate either of them. Sam was strong enough to take control of his vessel back from Lucifer and best Michael. Dean has had to kill many angels including Zachariah. He was also resolute enough to deny Michael the use of his vessel, over-throwing his destiny.”

Mathiel’s offers Castiel a weak smile. “These are the men we are going to for help, brother? It sounds as though you have caged tigers, Castiel. How are you planning to loose them without being mauled?”

Castiel’s pimpmobile with all four angels pulls up next to the Men of Letters bunker just ahead of a severe snowstorm. Angel radio silence from the Winchesters has the Castiel worried. Dean must be really sick and Sam must be really angry for them to be shutting him out. Castiel is not looking forward to unlocking the dungeon door, and he hasn’t been feeling – well, like he used to feel before losing his grace. The grace inside him is like sand under his eyelid, scratchy and uncomfortable. Foreign.

The angels get a real shock by finding a shivering King of Hell waiting near the bunker doors. “About bloody time someone showed up to let me in.” Crowley blusters as his eyes take in the other angels. “I know our boys are in there, I can feel them, but they aren’t answering.”

Castiel motions the other angels back as he tersely greets the sometime King of Hell. “They are not your boys, Crowley.”

Despite the smirk the demon king gives him, Cas can tell there’s something wrong with Crowley. He doesn’t send off waves of dark energy like he did in the past. The demon studies Castiel too. Something is not right about the angel’s aura, something similar to how the angel felt wrong when he was filled with the souls from Purgatory, but not as strong.  

“Yes, well, we can chat about that and you can introduce me to your new companions inside.” Crowley almost whines. Castiel’s suspicions about Crowley are confirmed when at his motion Mathiel and Joel grab Crowley and he doesn’t disappear.

Angels don’t need luggage, so they hustle inside the bunker. As the door closes on the howling wind, silence falls over the bunker. Castiel leaves the other angels in the kitchen as he half drags Crowley toward the dungeon.

“Oh, Hell no!” Dean sputters as the dungeon door opens only to have Crowley thrust into the room, Castiel moving in quietly behind him, stooping to unlock Sam’s leg shackle. Before Crowley can move away, the Seraph locks the band around the demon.

“Hello, Boys. I’m back.” Crowley quips.

As Castiel turns around, Dean is right there in his face. Shoulders squared, jaw clenched, the older Winchester brother has anger radiating from him in waves, strongly enough that even the angel is made wary. “I prayed to you for help, and you lock me in a fucking dungeon?” Dean doesn’t yell. His voice is dangerously deep and forced out through clenched teeth.

Castiel stands his ground. These two have had confrontations in the past – it would be hard not to remember the alleyway or the crypt. “You have been an idiot,” growls the angel, his voice like the rumbling of an earthquake. “It was bad enough when Alastair had you apprenticing as an inquisitor. Now you have bound yourself to Hell, and I cannot even rescue you.”

Dean hits him in the jaw, fully expecting to break his knuckles like he did the first time he got mad enough to punch Castiel. To everyone’s surprise, Castiel gets knocked to one knee. “How did you do that?” Sam gasps as he moves to the angel’s side to help him up. Castiel shakes him off and stands, pushing Sam to one side and punching Dean in the stomach before Sam can grab and try to hang onto the angel’s arm.

“Stop!” Yells the younger Winchester, not sure what he can do to make his bull-headed brother and the world’s most intractable angel act civilly. Castiel twists out of Sam’s grasp and advances on Dean.

The green-eyed hunter is still doubled over holding his stomach and working hard to draw breath back into his lungs. “Bloody idiots,” Crowley snarks. Then the demon opens his overcoat and draws out an ugly long knife. It looks like it is made of ancient bone but with an ivory sheen. He closes Dean’s fist around it as he helps the hunter up, then he moves away as the First Blade and the mark on Dean’s forearm begin to glow and throw off light.

Dean writhes on the floor in obvious agony as Castiel stands by with a stricken look on his face muttering “no, no, no.” The angel whirls toward Crowley who crouches next to Dean on the ground. “I thought I had more time. How did you even find it?” Castiel’s face is pinched, and Sam thinks he sees actual fear in the angel’s eyes.

“Son of a witch, remember? I made it come to me. I think, angel-boy, you had better unchain my new Knight of Hell before he tears this bunker down on all our heads.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

Waves of creeping itchiness travel Dean’s nerves, and he clenches his jaw. Inside him it feels like Hell - the anger and murderous intent – Hell, the final ten years. The mark on his arm pulses red while his hand clenches the hilt of the First Blade so tightly that veins stand out. He can feel himself losing the battle to contain the negative emotions he has tried to deny.

These things have been inside Dean’s psyche for years, the darkness he embraced under Alistair, the emptiness Famine sensed in him, the clarity he found in Purgatory. He’s alone and drowning in the filth of his memories.

“Dean! Dean. C’mon man, drop the knife. Let go.” Sam is kneeling by Dean’s side trying to pry his hand from around the knife. Dean looks bad, pale but with slashes of red across his cheeks. His skin is clammy to the touch. Sam cannot pry Dean’s fingers from the black handle. “Castiel, help me.” The younger brother calls desperately, his voice as raw as scraped flesh.

Right now it’s like a stranger is glaring at him through his brother’s red-rimmed eyes. What if he never snaps out of it, Sam worries. What if they never have a chance to make things right?

As Castiel closes in to help, Crowley jeers at him. “You can’t save him and you can’t stop this, Angel. Dean is becoming the First Blade, heir to the Father of Murder. He’s Hell’s to command now.”

“I won’t let you.” Castiel’s the picture of an avenging angel as he whirls to confront the weakened King of Hell. The Seraph stalks forward and presses his palm to the demon’s forehead. Blue light flares as Crowley goes to his knees, red smoke puffing in and out of his mouth lightly. Crowley keens a high pitched whine as he tries to crawl away, and the smell of sulfur fills the room.

Castiel, Angel of the Lord, slowly dims; light fading like stars in a predawn sky, as he pushes out power like it is a physical challenge. His nose starts dripping blood and his breath hitches before his knees buckle, saving himself from the floor narrowly. 

Chuckling weakly from his place on the floor within the painted Devil’s trap, Crowley sneers at Castiel. “You don’t have the juice. Your stolen grace doesn’t work.”

Over by the door a trio of voices is heard, and Castiel’s three companions crowd in to rescue him. Mathiel and Joel move toward Castiel while Barbiel wrests the blade from Dean who stays frozen in place; the older Winchester is completely still except for the deep draughts of air he’s pulling in, like he’s winded from a long run.

“It seems you do not fully retain the power of the King of Hell either.” Mathiel ushers Castiel over to Joel who holds him up with an arm around his shoulders. Then Mathiel turns back to face Crowley and begins to glow with the bright white light of a fully powered Seraph.

Angels are warriors of God, and that has never been more apparent than now, watching Mathiel stalk his prey, angel blade silently slipping from his sleeve to fill his hand. The angel of Tuesdays has been confined to Heaven since the first battle between Michael and Lucifer. He heard about demons, this race their brother the Light-bringer created, and considers them abominations. Demons – human souls -- twisted and perverted from the path God intended for them, more so than their own sins had deformed them and sentenced them to Hell.

Crowley cringes away, but he cannot run or smoke out from the Devil’s trap and demon shackle. He panics and starts begging. “Hey, hey, you need me. You can’t just kill me. Who will run Hell?”

Sam intervenes, moving away from Dean to stand between Mathiel and Crowley. It’s so bright he needs to shade his eyes. “Don’t, please. Please. We need to figure all this out. I need to know what he knows. We need him until we figure this out so we can help Dean.”

“Mathiel, stop! I agree with Sam,” growls a pale and shaken Castiel, who is still leaning against Joel. “Please, brother, I was behaving rashly. We need a plan, and he is not going anywhere.”

Mathiel holds his hands up as he backs away, taking the padlock key from Castiel and unlocking Dean. The angel helps the hunter to his feet as the group leaves the dungeon with only the former King of Hell shackled in it.

-           -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -

It’s awkward. At the library table, Dean and Castiel are slumped on one side; Sam is at the end; and three angels perch on chairs on the other side, sitting up straight like Catholic school kids. Sam is staring at the angels whenever he isn’t shooting worried looks at his brother. The First Blade sits in the middle of the table as unwelcome and unwanted as a turd.

Castiel had introduced his brethren to the Winchesters, but that was awkward too because Dean really hadn’t snapped out of the fugue state he had fallen into yet, and the angels all drew back from Sam’s offered hand shake and seemed to be staring at Dean as though he were an unusually dangerous circus animal. The silence goes on too long until Castiel lifts his head again from his hands wiping away some blood from his nose. “We need a plan.”

Startling the rest of the group, Dean speaks up, his voiced hesitant and raspy. “Can someone move that?” His head motions toward the knife. “Sam? Can you go hang it in my room?” He looks around at the angels. “It’s distracting.” Sam climbs to his feet and scoops up the knife; it feels heavy and fairly normal in his hands - a not very well-balance instrument of murder, but Sam does not experience any reaction to it. He trudges off to put the knife in Dean’s room.

Barbiel supervises the group moving to the bunker’s “war room” which has a chalk board for planning. She shoos them along, having Joel and Mathiel bring in chairs. Dean rises slowly like an old man whose joints are aching, and Castiel moves beside him, ready to catch him if he falls, but Dean shakes his head. “I’m fine, Cas. You look after yourself.”

 By the time Sam returns, the group is loosely grouped around the map table as Barbiel stands with chalk in hand. “Before we can plan, we must decide what our goals are, and then we need to prioritize them. Is everyone agreed?” She begins listing things on the board: Open Heaven, remove Metatron…

Dean interrupts. “Wait up, Barbie. I don’t remember dying and leaving you in charge. You, Matt, and Joel are just visiting. Me and Sam? And Cas? We’ve been fighting these battles for…” He trails off for a moment with a faraway look in his eyes. “Too long.”

He gives a derisive snort and shakes his head. “We’ll get Metatron and Gadreel, but first I’ve got a date to set with Abaddon. I didn’t reach out to Cain or accept this body modification for nothing.”

“Impertinent.” Mathiel glowers toward Dean. “Your brother is one of Azazel’s marked ones, and you bear the mark of the Father of Murder – a mark that makes you anathema, set aside for an evil purpose. We expected the Righteous Man.” He glares at Castiel. “This is not what we were led to believe we would find here. We expected allies. You aren’t even fit enough to fight.”

Bright green eyes are suddenly inches away from Mathiel’s pale blue ones as Dean leans across the map table inches from the Seraph’s nose. “Watch what you say about Sam and Cas.” His voice is a low rumble, a deep animalistic sound. Mathiel moves back almost on instinct just as Castiel reaches out and grabs Dean’s belt, yanking him back toward his seat.

Dean spins, breaking Cas’s hold, but stands there a moment, collecting himself. “Right. I’m sorry. They’re adults. Sam and Cas can take care of themselves.” He’s agitated and mumbling, like he’s reasoning with himself. “Fine. I just…I’m going to take, a walk.”

The older Winchester avoids Sam’s hand reaching toward him as he paces out of the room. “I’m just. I’ll be back.” He throws over his shoulder. Sam stands halfway up, as though to follow his brother, but sinks back into his seat, rubbing his hand across his unshaven chin. He sends a questioning look at Castiel.

Castiel stares back as though he’s reading the non-verbal plea, and interpreting correctly, he reassures Sam. “I have removed all alcoholic beverages from the bunker, and there is a blizzard going on outside. He cannot go to town to purchase more.” Sam gives a small nod, and his shoulders relax a little. They hear drawers and cabinets opening, and closing more loudly each time.

Joel rises. His vessel is a slightly overweight middle-aged man, and his attitude is more jovial than either Mathiel’s intensity or even Barbiel’s efficiency. “You brought me here to help take care of the humans Castiel. Let me see to him. I think perhaps you are pushing too quickly with them, and with yourself.” He rests his hand on Cas’s shoulder. “Whatever is happening with your grace, I think rest may help.”

“Don’t let him leave.” Castiel demands, his voice harsh from exhaustion. “Don’t let either of them go.” As the other angels nod, Castiel closes his eyes and appears to fall asleep sitting up almost immediately. They share concerned looks.

Turning toward Sam, the older looking man lifts his eyebrow and asks encouragingly. “Do you think you and your brother could eat? Breakfast, I think. Eggs and sausage? Pancakes? And I can put on some coffee.”

Sam nods his head. “Yeah, we need to eat. It’s been a few days. Rough days for Dean, cold-turkey from alcohol. Plus he’s a food grouch any time, and doesn’t talk until he’s caffeinated.” Sam’s trying to help lighten the dark cloud over the room, but the effort is too obvious, like his distraction is as he is listening for his brother’s movements.

Dean is still moving around the bunker by the sounds. Running up the steps, doors opening and closing. Sam corners him as he’s heading back down into the long hallway. “Dean. Dean? What are you doing?”

Dean shakes his head at the taller man. “Not right now.” He’s brusque but not angry. “I get it, Sam. Unreliable drunk. You pitched the booze. Fine.”

“Fine.” The famous Winchester word for their health, welfare, and everything else they don’t want to talk about. Sam’s not fooled. “Joel is making breakfast, making coffee. You should eat.”

Dean moves to pass Sam who again holds out a long arm blocking the hall. Dean pauses as he brushes it aside. “Not a good time, Dude. I’m heading down to the range to work off some aggression.” As though he knows that Sam is at least trying to show some brotherly concern, he offers a weak half-smile and a shrug. “ Save me some.”

That’s when Sam notices Dean is carrying his gun and ear protection. He notices something else, too. Dean looks like he’s wearing a thigh holster; but instead of a gun, he has strapped the First Blade onto his body, the knife’s holt rests almost at his brother’s hip – easily accessible to his right hand - while the long, ugly blade is sheathed and stops about six inches above his knee.

 


	6. Lonely is the Night 06

How much of the brush-off Dean just gave him did he earn, and how much is due to how weird Dean is acting because of the Mark of Cain and the First Blade, Sam wonders as he runs his hand through his hair and watches his brother disappear down the hallway to the range. And should Dean be wearing the damn thing if it’s making him act so strangely?

Sam’s heart hurts physically and his stomach churns as the tall man turns toward the kitchen. Starving himself is not going to help his brother. For that matter, Sam’s not sure if there’s anything he can do, or Dean will allow him to do, to help - that’s it rolled into a ball. It doesn’t matter at this point who’s in the right and who’s wrong. All that matters is that their bond is broken.

Sam’s relationship with his brother, with his only family, has been so strained that it may be permanently warped. The man who enters the kitchen feels more alone than he did when he thought his brother was dead, again, because Dean’s still physically here, but the distance between them seems insurmountable. Years of helping each other, no matter what, and forgiving each other, no matter what, and keeping each other human has been burned away while Sam held a grudge and insisted on Dean fixing the unfixable. He sighs in frustration.

“Is that a hole letting the air out of a tire, or a sigh?” Joel smiles, pleased with himself for joking, but he’s also very curious about this man who thirty-one years ago was marked by Azazel, and who almost became the anti-Christ by voluntarily drinking demon blood, but who found the strength to overcome Lucifer and end the Apocalypse.

Angel radio said it was the power of love for his brother that helped Sam overthrow Lucifer’s dominion; to Joel that love has not been apparent. He and Barbiel spoke of it briefly – what kind of human brothers lock each other up in dungeons and chains? How could their love have been so great once and evaporate so completely?

As Sam begins to eat, Joel brings a chair to the table and sits across from him. He does know something about human nature, having spent time in Eden and on Earth with Adam and his family. “Want to talk about it?” In his experience, years of living in the garden with Adam, humans like to talk about themselves. Besides it is pretty obvious this man does not have anyone in his life except his brother and their strange relationship.

The knowledge of the separation of the Winchesters from the rest of humanity is a nugget of information that has been filed away in Joel’s mind as pertinent if another plan he has been half-way considering is going to come about.

“It’s just…Dean.” Sam sighs again, pushing food around on his plate. “He’s shutting me out ‘for my own good’ and this time, well, I might not be able to help. He accepted the Mark of Cain because he thinks it’s the only way we can defeat Abaddon, but I’m not so sure. We beat her once, you know.” He clears his throat and looks over at the angel. “She wasn’t dead, but she was out of commission. He didn’t need to do something so drastic. Now he’s pretty sure he has damned his soul to Hell again, and he’s pushing me away. And – of course – drinking too much, just like dad used to.”

Joel nods his head and makes sounds of agreement as he gets up to get the coffee pot and refill Sam’s cup. “Is this the only thing bothering you? Your brother?” The angel continues to sooth, and it works. Sam, who is anchorless without Dean, opens up to the attention.

“Dean. He’s been so different. Even more than when he got back from Hell, and Purgatory. He seems, remote. Like I was without my soul.” By this point, Sam is talking out loud like he would talk to himself, laying things out so he can pinpoint the problem. “Not exactly like soulless. It’s more like, more like, like Dad, I guess. Like he’s so obsessed that nothing else matters.”

Still listening, Joel continues to interject comforting sounds although he’s becoming more appalled at Sam’s analysis of his brother. He is becoming sure of winning at least the younger brother’s trust. Maybe if Joel is seen helping these brothers reconcile, Castiel and the older brother will trust him more. Castiel seems to think Sam and Dean are needed to reopen Heaven and get the angels home. Joel is starting to think he agrees, but he thinks their usefulness will come from being the perfect vessels for the last two archangels alive.

Sam looks up from where his head is bowed over his plate, he looks at the angel assessing, and then he decides to confide in him. “I’m worried about Cas, too. I had hoped Castiel could help me with Dean, but now I don’t know. He seems – weak? Powerless? And this taking another angel’s grace? It’s like being some kind of vampire.”

“Is that what you think of me?” Deep and demanding, Castiel’s question heralds his arrival into the kitchen. Neither the man nor the other angel had paid attention to the sounds of Castiel reviving in the other room, and they are startled and embarrassed to be caught discussing him. “Sam? You think I’m some type of parasite? A monster?”

Red flushes paint Sam’s face as he stammers, trying to find a way to unsay what he said until he stops and inhales. “Yeah. I guess I am worried about that. About how you’re not doing so well since Metatron stole your grace and even now that you took some other angel’s.” He purses his lips and thrusts out his jaw.

Castiel narrows his eyes, hands still holding onto the door frame to steady himself, and he is flustered, unsure of how to answer the accusation and hurt that Sam doesn’t seem to trust him. Before he can think of a reply Barbiel sticks her head into the room from the other doorway. “I think much of this is a misunderstanding of the nature of an angel’s grace and human soul.”

Years spent categorizing blessings in heaven do not make Barbiel a vibrant speaker, but the three in the kitchen listen closely. “Grace and human souls are both sparks of divine energy, like blasting caps and TNT. Blasting caps are explosions – more volatile but smaller – than the explosive power of TNT which is more stable and difficult to set off accidently. No one can mistake the two, even though both are made of dangerous stuff.”

Castiel stands there blinking; he looks to both Sam and Joel only to see that they are both still as puzzled as he is. “Sister, I don’t understand what you are saying.”

“Yes, well the analogy made so much sense in my head when I started.” Barbiel inhales sharply and catches her bottom lip in her teeth in concentration as she exhales. “You see, God is the explosion. Both blasting caps and TNT are part of that; and in an emergency, one could use more blasting caps to get the same effect as one stick of TNT.”

This time it’s Sam who interjects. “So which one is which? Are souls the blasting caps or the explosives?”

Cas cocks his head to the side. “How does this make me less of a monster?”

The female angel is exasperated as she continues. “All of it starts out as part of God, so it is more how you treat it than anything that determines how it reacts. Castiel, you think yourself a monster and of the grace as stolen, so like a human soul spoiled in Hell, you are turning the grace from yourself – and from God. It is your own judgment tainting the grace because of itself it is nothing but a tool.”

\- - - - - - - - - - -  - - - - - - -

One hundred rounds of ammo fired downrange later, Dean is more focused but just as murderous inside as he felt in the dungeon. He knows he should go eat, but decides more than something inside his stomach, he needs to step into the shower and let the great water pressure wash away the grime of his bender and enforced rehabilitation.

Dean feels every day of his age and all the years he spent in Hell. Inside there’s an angry old man, bitter and alone. He makes a quick stop by his room to grab clean clothes and heads into the shower room, leaving his clean clothes on a bench in the changing area and his dirty ones on the floor. The First Blade he twines the straps of the thigh holster around and leaves it sitting on the pile of clean clothes.

Even in the short amount of time that Dean has spent with the knife, he has begun to feel he needs it to be complete. He likes the way it makes him feel powerful and in control. He brushes his hand across the hilt before leaving it. After months of feeling like all his choices had been stolen from him, months of feeling like he had somehow completely failed Sam by keeping him alive and would have failed his Dad if Sam died, Dean welcomes the return of his self-assurance that the knife gives him.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, Dean adjusts the spray and waits for the water to reach a consistently hot temperature. When it’s just right – and he smiles thinking kind thoughts of the original Men of Letters and their great water pressure – he steps under the shower head and lifts his face into the spray. Finally, Dean uses soap and scrubs like he wants to remove layers of skin, like if he rubs hard enough he can turn back time on everything bad he has ever done. Like he could remove the scars left on his soul.

Turning off the water, the older Winchester brother dries off and wraps the towel back around his waist before stepping in front of the mirror swiping fog from it. The reflection scares him, but it doesn’t show in his expression. Only his eyes show the horror he feels at what he is becoming. Dean lets the mirror fog over again as he brushes his teeth – he’d rather not see. Not wanting to have to stare at his own face, he decides to leave the beard.

When Dean finishes, he turns toward the changing area again only to find his way blocked by Mathiel. “Didn’t hear you come in.” Dean’s mind is mulling over possibilities. Fully powered Seraphs don’t require showers that he can remember. He wonders if this is something new like being unable to transport themselves from place to place or if the angel is a threat.

Mathiel stands like the military man his vessel is. His gaze if sternly fixed on Dean. “I need to see the mark, and I need to see how it’s affecting your soul.” Dean tries to push past him. It’s one thing to have Castiel read under the layers Dean has constructed. Cas is family. This guy, Dean doesn’t know and that intense stare makes him feel more naked than only wearing a towel. “Move it, Matt.” Dean snaps out. “I’m not here for you to get your perv on.”

The Seraph continues to stand between Dean and his clothes. “This would be easier if you would cooperate; but either way I am going to inspect that mark and the damage done to your soul.”

“I don’t think so.” Dean sputters as he tries to rush past him to the knife. It’s like running into a wall, and that brings back memories of when he first met an angel and tried to kill him. He has killed angels since then, but with an angel blade. Right now he’s completely unarmed, and he’s sure kicking him would probably just break his own foot.

Knowing he is going to lose has never stopped Dean from trying before, and it doesn’t stop him now. He whirls into a kick and before he can avoid it, Mathiel touches two fingers to his head and everything goes black.


	7. Lonely is the Night 07

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This chapter is why there’s a non-con warning on the story. You have been warned!)

Regaining consciousness slowly after being zapped out by a Seraph, Dean stirs and his eye-lashes flutter as he surfaces. First he notices that he’s stretched out on his own bed, hands fastened above his head. He doesn’t feel anything holding them, so they must be stuck with angel mojo. His legs are held down also, not exactly spread eagle, but definitely splayed. Then he realizes that he doesn’t even have on a towel.

His eyes snap open to find Mathiel sitting on the side of his bed – looking at him intently. “Good, you’re awake.” Mathiel’s inappropriately jovial, and Dean tries to open his mouth to tell him, only to find he can’t speak. He glares at the angel who chuckles. “It would be inconvenient for me if you were to call out right now. And I was only trying to see how Cain’s mark is affecting you at first. But now that I have you spread out here, other desires are surfacing.”

Mathiel’s thumbs trace Dean’s ribs, caressing gently. “I want to read the writing on your ribs, and you still bear Castiel’s mark on your upper arm. It’s under the skin, but still noticeable to angels. My brother Castiel’s mark is a strong bond.”

Moving his hand over where the mark used to show, Mathiel smoothes over Dean’s shoulder. “I wonder what Michael thought when he saw it. It obscures the fact that you are an appropriate vessel for an archangel.” He pauses and catches Dean’s eyes. “So many marks claiming you. Michael, Castiel, Cain. Even Hell has branded you.” He pauses and lifts an eyebrow. “Alastair’s work?”

While he’s talking, Mathiel continues to run his hands over Dean’s muscled chest. “You’re beautifully crafted. Your soul shines more brightly than a prism, intensified by all the cracks. The Mark of Cain is the newest overlay of color – it adds even more depth. Cain’s mark warns against trying to kill you, you know. It says only God has that right.”

The Seraph leans in closer with his nose almost on Dean’s neck, still damp from the shower, to sniff at him. “Hhmmm. We angels cannot taste as you humans do, but we can appreciate smells. Touch, too. And our human vessels remember basic desires - like sex. I could make both of us feel good.”

Managing a growling sound, Dean struggles against his invisible bonds. Years of being captured by different creatures, and he has never been stripped like this, laid out like cake on a dessert table. In fact, only in Hell has he ever been treated like meat, and that was part of the torture demons used to break him. This time – it’s an angel, and Dean’s thinking Heaven and Hell share a play book.

Dean gathers his thoughts, holding back the tumultuous anger and fear he is feeling. Dean hates the thought of anyone finding him in such a humiliating position, but he knows he needs help. This situation is also bringing back memories he has suppressed for years, memories of every kind of torture he was subjected to in Hell. He composes a mental prayer and tries to send it to Castiel. “Cas? Help! I need help, please. Mathiel’s…he’s going to. C’mon, Cas. It’s like Hell.” He forms a mental picture to send to the other angel. “Please, Cas. Help.”

In the kitchen where Sam, the other two angels, and Castiel are still talking Dean’s prayer reaches him. Cas gasps out loud as he is hit with the intensity of his friend’s need. Almost instantly Cas begins to boil in anger. He is responsible for bringing Mathiel here.

“Dean!” He cries out and starts across the bunker toward the sleeping area, missing his wings and their ability to move him instantaneously. As he charges out of the room, the others exchange glances and get up to follow him. Castiel reaches Dean’s room first, but the room is locked. As he pauses to gather his strength, Sam, Joel, and Barbiel catch up.

“Here…” Cas motions, and Barbiel and Joel both move past him to burst open the door.

Mathiel stands and turns to meet them, releasing Dean’s bonds in the motion. Castiel pushes inside, his weapon sliding into his hand. Joel and Barbiel reach to restrain Castiel, but Sam is between them, blocking their way into the room which seems smaller than ever with six bodies in it. Dean leaps off the bed into the back of his captor, driving Mathiel from behind onto Castiel’s angel blade.

Mathiel gasps and bright light and blue smoke begin seeping from his wound. He starts to crumble, but Castiel catches him. While the room’s inhabitants are still processing what is happening, Castiel instinctively draws in Mathiel’s escaping grace.

Everyone freezes in place.

There are many things Dean Winchester has never discussed with his brother. Some of them are experiences Sam may have shared. These two men both spent time in Hell, but never compared notes. Dean has also never talked to Castiel, the angel who pulled him from Perdition, about what types of torture he suffered or inflicted. Hell has pretty much been an off-limits topic, the proverbial elephant in the room, and one thing about it has always been apparent. Both men were profoundly changed even though their experiences were extremely different.

When Dean was resurrected, Sam had asked his brother about his experiences in the pit, but Dean couldn’t describe it. Similar to how the horror of watching the demon-set fire that killed his mother when he was four made him mute, Dean couldn’t form the words. And after what he had become, how he said yes to Alastair after thirty years of physical, emotional, and sexual torment from the master torturer and all his apprentices…well, he wasn’t looking for sympathy. He isn’t looking forward to a return trip either, but he feels he deserves it after the young prophet’s death.

And with Sam, his nightmares and psychotic break painted a vivid enough picture to show that Lucifer and his brother Michael found plenty of creative ways to play with Sam when he jumped into the cage in Hell to end the Apocalypse. Dean didn’t have to ask, the shouts from Sam’s nightmare filled in the blanks.

The emotional walls both brothers had built to block Hell had also built a veneer of privacy. If they wanted to, they could guess at the other’s experiences, but neither was willing to try. All it would do is inflict suffering and make their own nightmares resurface.

Castiel had seen what the torture did to both of the Winchester brothers. And while the angel who charged into Hell to save the Righteous Man was the trusted captain of the earth garrison, the one who pieced together the fragments of a broken man was far from an obedient soldier. The angel that God recreated after the Apocalypse rescued Sam from his older and more powerful archangel brothers - but not completely. Too late to save one, too weak to save the other, Castiel has since declared himself the hunters’ guardian. But now he sees he has failed again.

“Get out.” Dean’s voice cracks as he gives the command. Dean thinks he sees pity in his brother’s eyes, and he cannot stand it. It is worse than the fact that he is standing there, physically naked, in front of Sam and three angels. And Joel, an angel who spent time with Adam both before and after the fall, sees this man react with shame.

Dean hurriedly opens the dresser drawer and pulls on briefs and sleep shorts, then a pair of sweats on top of them, none of the others move. Dean turns to glare while holding a paper thin AC/DC T-shirt. He pulls it over a scarred and bruised body, thinner than Sam remembers him ever being.

“I said get out!” Dean’s voice is still uncertain, more so because it’s muffled by him pulling a Henley over his head. Next he grabs an old soft flannel shirt which he shakily buttons. Sam can see his brother trembling as he hides under layers of clothes, and he recognizes the old hoodie Dean slips on last. An article of clothing shouldn’t have the power to hurt as badly as that one does.

“Dean?” Sam wants to go to him, but he can’t. The anger, the emotional distance, hold him back. That and the fact that his brother backs away until his back is against the wall before sinking down into a crouch. This man doesn’t want him, his help, or his sympathy. But Sam knows he needs it.

“Let me…”

“No.”

Sam nods finally, accepting that this is what his brother wants - that his brother has shut him out. He turns to head for the door, but is struck by the four angels in their tableau. Mathiel lies crumpled on the ground. Castiel stands over him but with his back to the others, across the room from Dean but focused on him. The other two angels are standing on the broken door with identical shocked looks locked on Castiel. And Sam remembers – this is the second time Castiel has stolen another angel’s grace.

“We need to leave him alone.” Sam’s voice is strained, but clear. “He needs time.”

Joel shakes his head as though clearing the past few moments from his thoughts. His eyes sweep over Dean. “Maybe some sweetened tea, for the shock.”

Even while he is shaking his head no, Sam accepts that a task will help get the other angels out of the room. “Yeah, okay. But could you…could you get rid of the body?”

Being thrown to earth and envesseled has changed the angels. Both Barbiel and Joel stare at what remains of Mathiel and feel shame. Their brother, a Seraph, had fallen completely, not just physically. And they avoid looking at Castiel because they are afraid. Fear and shame are human emotions. The shaken angels avoid Castiel as they grab the empty and dead vessel to drag it out of the room where their hero has become a monster before their eyes.

Sam tries to stand the heavy wooden door back up into its frame, but parts hang down like streamers the day after a party. He props it against the wall, steeling himself before he turns toward Castiel. “You need to go, too, Cas. Give Dean some time.”

“No.” Castiel’s voice is firm as he sinks down to perch on the edge of the bed. His blue eyes shine with certainty and something else Sam doesn’t recognize. “No, Sam. Dean has been alone enough. I won’t leave him again. I’ll wait here.”

Once upon a time Sam would have been the only one Dean would allow around him when the trials and tribulations of their life became too much. But too much time, and too many pains inflicted on each other have passed. Sam stares at Dean another minute, willing his brother to lift his head, to talk to him. “Dean?” And that one word holds a host of questions. Should I stay or should I go? Will you be okay here with Castiel? Has it really gotten this bad?

Dean lifts his head before answering, hands scrubbing his face and eyes averted. But there’s no emotion in his voice; It sounds hollow as he says “Just go.”


	8. Chapter 8

Mankind has thousands of sayings about time; it heals wounds, razes mountains, changes everything. It creeps, crawls, flies, or hangs heavily. Time is on their side or they run out of time. Time is relative, wibbly-wobbly, a stream, a river, or just one of many dimensions. Men speak of killing time, but time does kill men.

Men invented this measurement of time from the Earth’s relative position to the sun. They quantified it into minutes, hours, days, years. Time is fleeting for mankind, Castiel understands that too well. He can see it in the lines on the brothers’ faces, the new scars on their bodies. And he knows that the five or so mankind years he has been around the Winchesters have seemed fuller than the existence he knew before meeting them. Once he looked on as treachery reigned and Paradise was lost, then as Cain slew Able, and now here sits a descendant wearing Cain’s punishment.

Cas learned some unforgettable truths in his short stint as a human being. He learned that true compassion doesn’t use words. It’s shown in actions, in companionship, and he learned what loneliness feels like. How it alienates one and causes emptiness to ache. If Dean needs a little time to compose himself, Cas will wait, but he will wait here with him. And he’ll make sure nothing harms the hunter while he huddles by himself, finding the inner strength to go on - that Dean Winchester trait that makes him so remarkably resilient.

“Talk to me.” Dean’s rough voice startles the angel who turns his head to allow his sapphire blue eyes to bore into the hunter. Cas leaves aside any humorous remarks about how they’ve had this conversation before because he remembers that this is Dean’s way of asking to be distracted. He tilts his head considering whether that’s a good idea. He decides it isn’t.

“How are you?” Castiel questions bluntly, but Dean shakes his head, an obvious “not yet” response.

“No, man, tell me about you and the angel grace. How are you doing now?” He shifts enough that Cas finally can see his eyes, the jade red-rimmed and tired looking. “Are you okay, or are you going to lose your power again?” Dean watches the angel intently, reading his reaction to the questions, his doubt and uncertainty. His own uncertainty shakes his voice a little as he continues. “Talk to me, man.” And Dean drags himself up off the floor, painfully slowly, and stands, still huddled in the hoodie, propped against the wall. It’s a start.

Cas nods his head. “It’s not good, Dean.” Then with more emphasis. “I am NOT good. The stolen grace feels tainted and seeps away so easily. Even now, I can feel Mathiel’s grace like…like the souls I stole before, trapped, unhappy.” Cas shrugs shallowly. “But for right now, I am re-powered.”

“So we need to make getting your own grace back a priority.” Dean’s voice sounds stronger. He rolls his shoulders as he straightens up. “And I don’t have time to sit around feeling sorry for myself like some kind of wuss. So if you think I want to talk about it, you’re wrong.”

Snorting is undignified, but Castiel lost his dignity around Dean Winchester a long time ago. “First – you would do better to talk about what you just experienced. I do not think it is healthy for humans to hide from their emotions. But more importantly, we need to talk about that mark. I believe Crowley must have tricked you into accepting it.”

Dean jerks his head like he’s been slapped. “Why? Don’t you think I’m worthy?”

Narrowing his eyes, Cas continues to stare at Dean. “Is that how he did it? Made you feel as though it were some kind of honor?”

“You know what, Cas? I don’t care what it is as long as it helps me kill Abaddon. I’m sick of all those demons running around on Earth like they own the place. This is my planet. And it’s my fault they’re here. Mine. I saved Sam and said to hell with the rest of the world. So every soul they steal, every person they kill, that’s on me. I can’t, Cas. I just can’t wait any more.” Dean’s growing angrier as he speaks and his voice is getting growly. “As a matter of fact, I’m tired of waiting. I’m going to get dressed and drag that half-pint-sized King of Hell out of the dungeon and make him take me to her.”

“There are flaws in your plan, Dean. First – you cannot trust Crowley. I can’t believe you haven’t learned that lesson yet.” Castiel stands too, crossing his arms and looking cross. “Secondly, you are not going anywhere without me. And third – that mark is a stain, not an honor. You do not deserve that any more than you deserved to go to Hell.”

Dean glares and mumbles something about his clothes before walking out with his footsteps a little bit harder than they need to be. When he gets to the hallway, the first thing he sees is his brother’s long body draped on the wall like he’s holding it up. Dean stops. “What the Hell?”

The younger, taller, Winchester straightens to his full height, and from that advantage towers over his brother. Sam’s expression is like the proverbial storm-cloud. “Just because you kicked me out - that didn’t mean that I wanted to go. You can be such a frikkin jerk, Dean.” He runs his hands distractedly through his hair. “You don’t have to shut me out. I do still care about you.” His voice breaks.

The brothers stare at each other and all the conflicting emotions flicker through both their eyes. Finally Dean breaks the silence with a snide remark. “Don’t go soft on me, Sammy, just because some dick-bag angel tried to make me his bitch. Your partner is fine.” Then he brushes past his brother to head to the shower room. Sam watches him hesitate, and he thinks maybe Dean is going to stop, but he doesn’t.

Sam thunks his head against the wall. “Jerk.” He mutters.

Castiel walks into the hallway and stands next to Sam. “Were you listening to everything?” The angel asks the younger Winchester.

“Yep.”

“He’s planning to go confront Abaddon – with Crowley.” The angel turns toward Sam. “I am not letting him go alone.” It’s a statement, but at the same time there’s an obvious question to it. Is Sam willing to let Dean face the forces of Hell on his own?

Sam gives the angel a long look from under lowered brows. “You heard him, Cas. He doesn’t want me there.”

Castiel shakes his head. “That’s not what I heard.”

“Well you heard wrong.” People as tall as Sam Winchester frequently stoop, just to fit into a world where almost everyone they meet is shorter. So when Sam straightens up to his full height – six full inches taller than Jimmy Novak’s former body – he does it to make an impression. It’s an Alpha Male thing, an intimidation factor Sam knows how to use. It doesn’t work on Castiel, who at full power is more than a match for things twice his current size.

The fully-powered Seraph manages, somehow, to loom in Sam’s face. “Your brother has apologized. He has tried to make amends. Neither one of us has room to point fingers when it comes to screwing up.” He points his finger at Sam. “Dean loves you, and you broke his heart by disowning him. You know family means everything to him, and it is not his fault if the only family members he has ever known are obsessive. You were. Dean is planning a suicide mission; are you planning to let him die without calling him brother again?”

“It’s not that easy.” Sam shouts. “Saying you forgive someone doesn’t make the past go away. It doesn’t wipe the slate clean. I can’t trust him anymore. After everything I went through when Meg possessed me, and Lucifer? He tricked me into letting an angel camp out in me.”

By the time Sam’s finished yelling, he notices that Dean has returned. The older Winchester’s mostly dressed how he was, except in jeans and boots now with the First Blade back in the sheath tied onto his thigh. Sam flushes red realizing Dean has heard every word, but he sets his jaw in anger, ready for an argument. “Well?” He challenges.

Dean’s face remains impassive, like a marble statue. “Well, nothing, Sam. I heard you the first time. I’m unforgiven. Fine.” He walks past them and heads for the steps.

The other angels, meanwhile, are just coming back inside from disposing of Mathiel’s vessel despite the snowstorm that is still raging. If an outsider was watching, it would look like two older people, male and female, and one might wonder why they do not stomp their feet or brush off snow from their shoulders. That is, unless the observer knew these were not humans.

Joel heads back into the kitchen while Barbiel heads down to the dungeon to talk to Crowley. Joel has been keeping food warmed, and he is more determined now that Dean should eat something. It is supposed to be his job to take care of the humans, and he failed when he lost track of Mathiel. No wonder God had confined the older Seraph to Heaven – he was dangerous to humans. Well, not anymore.

Barbiel and Joel worked out an agreement outside. They could no longer support Castiel as leader, not that they blame him for killing Mathiel, but stealing grace? Again? They have a plan and just need a chance to get Dean alone.


	9. Chapter 9

Sitting next to Crowley in the back seat, yes, the back seat, of Castiel’s 1978 yellow Lincoln Continental, Dean’s dark mood hangs on him like a fourth layer of clothing. Well, maybe a fifth because right before leaving the bunker, Dean threw his jacket on at the last minute. This isn’t a little cloud hanging over his head; it’s more like blackness oozing from within him. Negative emotions, violent urges, barely held in check. Self-hatred’s an acid eating away at him from the inside.

Castiel is driving the pimpmobile, and something he and Joel, the front seat passenger, are doing is keeping the car snowfree and on the road despite the almost blizzard-like conditions. As only a passenger, sitting behind Cas, Dean is free to keep rehashing what happened with Sam at the bunker before the group left; everything he said that he now worries came out wrong. He’d much rather have something to do to distract his thoughts.

It’s not Baby’s deep purring - as familiar to him as his own heartbeat - but being in a car with the lulling engine sounds and slight swaying motion helps soothe Dean somewhat. At least he doesn’t feel caged here. At least he’s on the way to do something, as stupid and harebrained as it is according to Sam. He’d like to close his eyes and at least pretend to sleep because, keeping them open, he keeps catching glimpses of the King of Hell’s intent gaze. Dean’s hand trails over the First Blade strapped on his side, sheath held in place with leather straps around his right thigh. The motion is like petting a dog, and he calms enough to glare at Crowley. “What are you looking at?”

The smirk Crowley gives him makes Dean want to smash the demon’s face, simmering anger almost reaching the boiling point between one tick of time and the next. He’s not sure he’ll be able to keep it together if the demon actually says something. His expressive face makes that apparent. “You know what, Crowley, just shut up. Just… I don’t want to know.”

Turning his attention to the front, Dean demands to know how long it’s going to take them to reach the coordinates Crowley gave them before they left the bunker. Dean is still not entirely sure why the demon insisted they needed a Devil’s Gate to enter Hell. Castiel catches Dean’s eyes in the rear view mirror and very patiently responds. He can see how tenuous Dean’s hold on himself is, knows how treacherous the mark can be.

“Dean, I am driving as quickly as I can safely travel in this weather. Perhaps you could rest? You look…” Castiel pauses, trying to find the right word. Dean looks hollowed out, exhausted, haunted. “…tired. I’ll wake you when we arrive.” The two maintain eye contact for a few seconds before shame causes Dean to turn away. He knows the angel thinks he did something incredibly stupid, and deep down inside, Dean knows it too.

Joel turns from the front holding a lunch bag. “I’ve fixed you some sandwiches, in case you get hungry.” Handing the bag over, he adds. “And I have something for you to drink.” With that, he hands him a bottle of water. Dean gives a disappointed grunt and a snarky thanks, turning quickly with a glare, like he’s daring the king of hell to comment. Crowley holds his palms up in submission, demon shackles stopping him from spreading them too wide. But he has a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

Dean exhales. He’s not hungry – Joel had practically forced a meal on him before they left. His meeting with his brother had made it taste like sawdust, but he choked down enough to satisfy the angel – he thought. Given the bag of sandwiches, maybe not. As for something to drink, he could use some Hunter’s Helper, something with a bite that would burn its way into him, but thanks to Sam and Castiel, the entire bunker was an alcohol-free zone.

“You know what? Screw consciousness.” Dean mutters. He’ll take his chances with bad dreams. Stripping off his jacket, he takes off Sam’s hoodie he is still wearing under it to wad up to use as a pillow. It hurts to even hold the hoodie – it reminds him of Sam, of Sam and him when things were better between them. He drapes his jacket like a blanket, and angles himself a little to be able to stretch his legs. He’ll sleep and maybe that will help him stop thinking about his last conversation with Sam.

But it doesn’t. Closing his eyes is like rewinding an old video tape.

_Dean stomped down the steps, determined to hit the road and find Abaddon even if that meant finding another rogue reaper in a taxi cab. He is tired of the circles all his recent fights with Sam followed. Sam accusing him of only doing things – like saving his little brother’s life – for selfish reasons. Couldn’t Sam tell he did it out of love? Yeah, he seriously didn’t want Sam dead, but shouldn’t Sam have felt that way too? And hadn’t they had this whole battle before? Dean distinctly remembers Sam, Cas, and Bobby pretty decisively determining that Dean wasn’t allowed to sacrifice himself. But Sam could. And look how that turned out!_

_Then with the trials – Dean wasn’t allowed to go find another hellhound and start over because Sam said it was going to be a suicide mission for him, but that Sam would find a way for them both to live through closing Hell. So, yeah, Dean stopped Sam from making “the ultimate sacrifice,” so frikkin what? Most of Dean’s life had been devoted to keeping his brother alive. Hell, even one of his deaths! So Gadreel turned out to be a dick? Well, most angels are, but, hey, it’s not like Dean had multiple options to choose from._

_And Dean had been, was, and still is tired of the fight. He had told Sam that before the trials ever started. Tired of how complicated things have gotten. Once it was simpler, find a monster and gank it. Now, well now, some of the monsters were a lot less monstrous than some of the regular old humans._

_The older Winchester barely made it down the steps before Joel had maneuvered him to a table. The angel was like the world’s pushiest mom with the whole “eat, eat” routine, but then Dean’s stomach growled so loud it was kind of hard to deny that he was hungry. So a quick stop to eat delayed him from skedaddling out of the bunker before Sam and Cas show up at the table._

_“I’m tired of rehashing this same shit, Sam. So – just can it.” Dean managed to bark that out around a mouth full of food, and Sam rewarded him with a classic bitchface, probably for talking with his pie hole stuffed, but who knows? Sam and bitchface have become the norm._

_Castiel was sitting there, hands folded on the table in front of him, but his mouth tightened as he looked over at Dean. “You two act like children sometimes.” Dean thought that was a great place for the Seraph to go. Now Sam could glare at Cas a while instead of Dean. But Dean should have figured his brother wouldn’t shut up._

_“Dean, listen to me a minute, will you? I…I’m not sure how it got this bad, but it has. I thought it was the drinking making it so, so like me with Dad. But that’s just a little part of it. I feel like you still treat me like your kid brother…”_

_“You – are - my kid brother, genius.”_

_Sam glared. “Let me finish, asshole. You have never wanted to acknowledge that I grew up, and a lot of bad things have happened along the way. Some of it my fault, some of it yours. And I know I made you a promise – a promise that I could show you that there’s light at the end of this long dark tunnel our lives have become, but, I can’t, Dean. I can’t.” His voice cracks a little and he rubs his palm over the stubble on his face. “I don’t even know if I believe in it anymore.” He whispered._

_Catching his breath, Sam continued. “I want to concentrate on Heaven, finding Metatron and making him reopen the gates so Kevin and all the souls trapped in the veil can find peace. I want to find Gadreel and make him pay for what he did to me. I can’t be your wingman on this crazy obsession you have going on with Abaddon, Dean. And you’re scaring me, man. You’re becoming something – I don’t know what. Obsessed? Violent? I just – I can’t trust you or your judgment right now. I don’t even think I know you anymore.”_

_Dean pushed back from the table to stand, moving helped him hide the pain those words inflicted. “Yeah, well, you know what, Sam? I think you’re right. I think I’m going to do this one without you. You can stay here. Work on the angel thing. Do what you need to do. I’ve got this.” He tried to clear his throat and turned to Cas. “Watch after my brother for me.”_

_“No.”_

_The shocked look on Dean’s face encouraged Castiel to go on. “No, Dean. I’m not staying here. If you are determined to go after Abaddon, then I am going with you.”_

_“I can’t ask you to do that, Cas. You’ve done enough for me, man, and I know you want to reopen Heaven. I know you want to bring your family home.” Dean tried to give Castiel a way to back out of the probably suicidal plan. “I’ve got – well, you know the mark. It’s supposed to help me defeat her.”_

_From the kitchen doorway, Joel joined the conversation. “I will go too; there is more safety in numbers. And I think we should bring Crowley. He can lead us in.”_

_“I’ll stay here with Sam.” Barbiel offered, her thin voice startling them all because she rarely interacted. “We stand a better chance finding Metatron or interpreting these notes the young prophet left without all the interruptions.” Turning to Dean, she added. “I will watch over Sam as we work.”_

_Dean gave her a thankful nod. His surprise and concern about the plan taking place around him evident._

_Castiel fixed his gaze on the older Winchester brother. “I am going, Dean. You are not asking me, nor am I asking you. I am not letting you storm into Hell by yourself. Even with the mark that would be foolish.” He looked more warrior of God than Dean had seen him look since the fall. Stern. Resolute. “And I really think you should transfer the mark to me, Dean. It’s dangerous.”_

_Dean’s refusal was almost shouted. While the other angels gasped audibly. “Castiel – that mark. It will damn you.”_

_His voice scraping like tires over gravel, Cas continued. “Better me than Dean. And am I not more ‘worthy’ of it? I devastated Heaven. Dean is guilty of not allowing his brother to die. I killed thousands of our brothers.”_

_“I’m guilty of more than that, Cas. You know. You saw me, what I did, what I’m capable of doing. My hands aren’t clean.” Dean holds out his hands like the others should be able to see the blood on them._

_“For the record…” Sam interrupted. “I think this is the most foolish plan you ever made, Dean. And, Castiel…I’m surprised at you. Alone or with Castiel and Joel, you aren’t a match for all the demons of Hell. I think you are trying to commit suicide, and I’m too tired to stop you.” Sam shrugged, his mouth drawn into a thin line. “I guess we all have to do what we have to do. But, Dean, this thing you’re doing. It’s not for me because I don’t want you to do it. If you confront Abaddon this way, man, it’s all on you, and it’s pretty damned selfish.”_


	10. Chapter 10

Heaven isn’t Paradise for angels. For the majority it is their military headquarters, their corporate workplace, or their contentious family home. Other angels, like Mathiel and Joel, had had a chance on earth and been recalled to Heaven as unsuitable around humans – it was their punishment. Even worse for a few, like Abner and Gadreel, Heaven was a prison.

As Anna had once said, Heaven was a place with all the tortures of Hell and twice the self-righteousness. Even Castiel, who in the beginning tried hard to be an obedient soldier of Heaven, said that he would rather be on Earth with the Winchesters. So it really shouldn’t have been a surprise that the angels’ fall was seen as a second chance for many angels – an escape without the bother of needing to run away.

Hell shares similarities with Heaven, unsurprising considering a fallen angel designed much of it. But originally it would have been the natural realm of humans who did not accept God’s dominion, like Purgatory is for non-humans. Hell would have been a place without restraints on the worst of human behaviors. Lucifer was the one who discovered, encouraged, and institutionalized the use of torture to turn humans into demons. Crowley’s reign actually improved the lives of many demons and denizens of Hell.

Another similarity? Heaven and Hell both have limited access - entered only through gates, and both have some secret passages. They share something else. Both realms have taken an interest in the Winchester brothers. Right now, both are gunning for one in particular. Dean, a man marked by both realms. 

The angel Castiel, once, in trying to reassure Dean that making the wrong decision for the right reason was understandable, said that he and Dean shared a trait of being too trusting. While he correctly identified that trait, neither Cas nor Dean actually stopped being trusting. Unfortunately for them, Joel and Crowley, the other two beings traveling to the Devil’s Gate, aren’t the least bit trustworthy – and they have entered into an agreement to double-cross Dean and Cas. Joel doesn’t want to be returned to Heaven, and Crowley intends to use Dean to eliminate his rival for control over Hell, and then eliminate Dean as a threat to his own rule.

Joel is pretty sure that without the Men-of-Letters, specifically without the Winchesters, mankind will not be able to expel angels from their midst. The angels can stay – those that want to blend in can. And they could live the easy life God created for humans. Yes, it would be better if the Winchesters were dead, but he doesn’t want to dirty his hands by actually killing the brothers.

Barbiel also wants to stay on Earth. Her plan involves neutralizing the Men of Letters’ threat by hampering Sam’s research capabilities. Sam thinks she stayed behind to help, and in a way she has. Barbiel is pretty sure ridding the world of the bunker will actually be a relief to the younger brother.

_Dean wakes with a snarl, grabbing Crowley’s hand from where it is resting on his thigh next to The First Blade. “Getting tired of being felt up in my sleep.” The hunter’s voice rumbles, low tones carrying an unmistakable warning and alerting the angels in the front seat that he has awakened. The hunter glares as he throws off Crowley’s hand – and the demon lets him._

_“Well, now. Easy targets - Sleeping Beauty, etcetera…” Crowley leers at Dean. “And you are a beauty, especially when your mouth is closed. But – I was fondling the blade, not you. That cursed thing has some kind of pull to it.”_

_Dean sneers. “How about you don’t pull on anything connected to me?”_

_Crowley laughs. “That one was almost clever.”_

_Castiel whirls around to face Crowley, ignoring the need to control the car. “Do not lay a hand on Dean Winchester!” The Seraph thunders at the demon. Joel grabs the steering wheel, and keeps the Lincoln on the road. Fortunately, they are within minutes of Stull Cemetery, their destination, as the car drifts to a stop, sputters, and dies._

_While Dean slept, Castiel had driven through the snow storm. Castiel swings open his door as soon as the car stops, and he reaches to open Dean’s door and pull him out of the car. Joel does the same with Crowley, but without as much concern. Outside it is still cold, but the sky is clear as the group makes its way into the cemetery where the Apocalypse had been brought to an abrupt halt four years ago._

_“Damnit, why here?” Dean mutters as he trudges alongside Castiel behind the other angel and a demon. He hadn’t meant to be heard, probably forgot the super human hearing of the others; he just couldn’t be here without thinking of how it felt to lose his brother. Castiel reaches across his back to squeeze his shoulder lightly in sympathy. Dean looks over and catches the soft look in the blue eyes gazing at him._

_“Would you two stop? You’re making me all misty-eyed.” Crowley snaps. “I need my wits about me to find the gate. Besides, with you two, it’s all foreplay and no getting down and dirty. Big waste of good pornography material if you ask me.”_

_“Nobody asked you. And – it’s not like that.” Dean’s blustering and stuttering out his come back as he blushes and twists away to stand with his back to the group for a moment. Castiel watches him with a puzzled frown._

_The demon stares from the dark-haired angel to the brown-haired hunter and smirks. “Truly hopeless. The both of you.” Crowley continues on into the cemetery, stopping right where Dean had once seen the earth swallow his brother. He begins chanting a spell as the others gradually draw closer._

Back at the bunker, Sam has not been able to fully immerse himself in his research. He feels fidgety. Like there’s something wrong or something he’s overlooking. The younger Winchester knows part of it is how he can’t believe he just let his brother go off to face Abaddon, a knight of Hell, without him. But Sam knows he would have been just as mad at himself had he gone. This is a no win situation to Sam, who sighs loudly.

Barbiel gives Sam a considering look over her eye-glasses, not sure exactly what is wrong. There’s nothing out of place she can see from where she is sitting across from him at the library table. She has little experience with humans, but she is quite sure the long loud sighs are a request for some type of attention. “Is there something wrong?”

“No. Well, yes, but there’s nothing you can do about it.” Sam mutters. “Sorry if I bothered you.” Barbiel nods her head and turns her attention back to her research. A few moments later Sam sighs again.

Slamming her book shut, Barbiel fixes her intent gaze on Sam. “Out with it!” She snaps. “We obviously will not get anything done until you tell me what’s on your mind.”

Running his fingers through his hair, Sam tries to find the words. He doesn’t really know this angel, but he needs someone to talk to, and, sometimes, it’s easier to talk to a stranger. Sam rubs his eyes, and shrugs. Might as well talk, she’s right that he’s not getting anything else done. “I guess I’m worried about my brother.”

Barbiel lines up her pens, and straightens the note paper next to her book, considering her response. She would rather complete her part of the mission without killing this sad looking tall man, if possible, so she thinks about what other options she has. Looking up at him, her eyes are calculating, but with his head buried in his hands Sam can’t tell that. “If you are so worried about him, why did you insist on staying behind?”

“It’s complicated.” Now Sam looks up. “We, my brother and I, have had some issues recently.”

“Yes, I saw some of that. In the dungeon when we released you both, and in his room when he and Castiel slew my brother Mathiel. What issue stopped you from going with him on his suicidal quest to kill a Knight of Hell?”

Sam leans forward, mouth pinching into a frown. “It’s not just that. There were other issues even before that. He’s out of control. He tricked me into accepting an angel inside of me. Lied to me for months.”

Barbiel peers at him over her glasses again. “I was under the impression that Gadreel had tricked him as much as he had tricked you. Was that not correct?” Straightening her shoulders, she is now every stern librarian who had ever intimidated the boys in libraries across America. “So you are mad enough at your brother that you will not assist him in a dangerous mission for spite? Or because he lied to you? I guess, you, yourself, have never lied to him?”

“I was supposed to close the Gates of Hell last year and he talked me out of it!” Sam allows anger to creep into his voice. “He was willing to let thousands of people die to save me!”

Wearing an elderly woman or not, Barbiel is an angel. Large angry men do not frighten her. “What is the saying? Boo-hoo?” She glares at Sam. “You’re angry because he loves you too much? You’re annoyed at him for trying to keep you alive? You won’t forgive him because you were both tricked?” She snorts. “I thought you were supposed to be the smart one. Well, enjoy your triumph. I hope it is everything you wanted and expected. I doubt your brother will make it back alive trying to defeat Abaddon without you.”

The chair slams onto the floor as Sam jumps up from the table. “He’s not alone. He’s got Castiel, Joel, and Crowley with him! It’s not like I let him go off on his own.”

Barbiel shakes her head slowly and one eyebrow climbs. “You trust Joel? Like you trusted Mathiel?” She snorts gently. “Or you trust Crowley? Really? Because while Castiel will fight beside your brother if it comes to it, it seems to me that he could have used more trustworthy people around him, more competent people than a Seraph leaking grace. Like his partner, his brother? As it is, I doubt your brother even cares if he lives or dies.”

Sam freezes in place a moment while his brain runs through several horrible possibilities. “Where did they go?” The words are so raw they sound dragged out of him. When she tells him what she knows, Sam races to his room to grab his coat, weapons, a duffel, and the keys to the Impala. He feels foolish for letting his anger bring him to this point. Stull Cemetery is two hours away – and the other group has a head start on him, but Sam knows now that nothing Dean has done will ever be enough to allow him to forgive himself if his brother dies today thinking his younger brother doesn’t care.

With only Dean in mind, Sam throws his things in the backseat before he drives the old Chevy out onto roads that have not yet been plowed, hurrying cautiously to make sure his brother does not die alone today, in the place his brother’s love helped him overcome Lucifer’s control. He remembers what it felt like to batter his brother while Dean begged him to remember what was important. To remember that through all the bad they had faced in their lives’, Dean’s love had been constant.

And now Dean faces life or death. Sam admits to himself that he has been trying to give Dean the impression that he didn’t care, but it’s not true. And he knows that Dean feels the loss of his only family more keenly than Sam ever would. Family is Dean’s reason for living, and, yeah, maybe that’s a lot of pressure when family has become so small, but he won’t let Dean die thinking his brother did not care.

As the car taillights disappear from sight, Barbiel stands considering the bunker. First she gathers together all the notes they have from the prophet Kevin trying to interpret the angel tablet. Then she piles the various books and encyclopedias they have been using to try to translate what they have. She wanders into bedrooms to get blankets, and she rummages through the kitchen and pantry finding oils and flammables.

It is better for her and the angels like her if the Winchesters – should they survive – do not have the necessary items to reopen Heaven or compel angels to leave earth. Piling her gathered items carefully on the table, she pours oils on them and lights the paper notes, carefully feeding items to the flame until she is sure the fire will grow without her help. Then Barbiel walks out the door, leaving it open to make sure the fire will have enough oxygen to keep growing.

 


	11. Chapter 11

The wind whips across the snow-covered hills surrounding Stull Cemetery in rural Kansas. This abandoned cemetery is one of seven portals to Hell in North America; its infamy culminated in it being the epicenter of the aborted Apocalypse. As Dean looks around, he sees that even the crumbling walls of the burnt-out chapel have been removed. Only the broken foundation marks the place it once stood.

Nothing, no town, no community, is close to the cemetery, and the landscape's barrenness is broken by only a few evergreen trees along the site's boundary lines standing in sharp relief to the blanket of white snow. No one else sees the men who move toward the center of the god-forsaken grounds. Crowley leads the way.

Castiel holds out his arm plucking at Dean's sleeve. "Dean, wait. I need to speak to you."

"Now, Cas?" Dean sounds exasperated. "Now? We, ah, we're kind of in the middle of something here. Can't it wait?"

Castiel frowns and tightens his hold on the fabric of Dean's jacket. His frustration is evident in his voice. "Dean, if I thought it could wait, I wouldn't ask."

"Fine." Dean stops and turns toward the angel. "What is so important that we need to do this right now?"

But Dean's anger dissipates as he takes in the look of concern and fear on Castiel's face, his blue eyes plead with him. "Dean, I really think you should let me kill Abaddon. I'm worried about what it will do to you to wield the blade and the mark. I don't know." He stops. "No. I do know. I will not be able to save you from Hell again if you do this and are damned. I am no longer strong enough, nor do I have my garrison to fight alongside me."

The Seraph's eyes are pleading with him. "Dean, I don't trust Crowley. Please, Dean, let me take this mark from you. Let this burden fall on me."

Looking weary, Dean closes his eyes, shutting out the sight of Cas's puppy-dog eyes, and then he bows his head as though in prayer. He stays that way for ten long seconds. When he looks back at the angel, he looks sad and resigned. Cas can tell he won't like what Dean says before the hunter opens his mouth.

"Cas, man. You should go now. Just leave – it would be better for you because, man, I'm a lost cause." Cas opens his mouth to interrupt, but Dean shushes him. "It's not your fault. You tried, but I think I always was, man." He adds, shaking his head. "I deserve this. What I do, what I did before, even Kevin, man." Dean continues somewhat incoherently. "All those people who've died because of me. And Sam, even Sam. Doesn't seem to matter whether I love someone or not. All I do is hurt and disappoint the people I care about."

The silence grows between them and Castiel sees a change come over Dean. He looks resolved, like he just now made up his mind. "I can't be that man you always wanted me to be, Cas. And I can't do what I've got to do worrying about you. Just, go, man. Please." He reaches over and pats the angel's shoulder gently. "But thank you, Cas, for everything. For the years I wouldn't have had without you, and for my second chance. But, man, it's over now – and I blew it again." He shoves lightly on Cas's shoulder, pushing him away physically as well as with his words. "Go. Don't watch this, and look after my little brother for me, please."

"No." Castiel snaps at Dean before reaching out to catch his wrist to prevent him from leaving. "Not this again, Dean. You made a stupid decision to accept the mark, but you are not a stupid man, so stop repeating mistakes. You are, and you have always been, such a good man. So strong and worthy. Don't try to pull away from me. I am not leaving you, Dean. You will not be alone. Whatever it is that must be done, we will do it together."

As Castiel finishes talking, Dean nods once. "This is, it's different, Cas. I'm different. And I don't want you to see me this way. Please, go." His face hardens as he turns away and heads toward Crowley who is standing there waiting. Castiel watches as he walks away for a moment, a troubled frown on his face, and then he looks around the cemetery. Crowley is still where they left him, preparing the spell to summon Abaddon, but Joel is missing.

"Okay, Crowley, you son of a bitch. Let's get this show on the road." Dean draws the First Blade, and grimaces as the sensations crawl up his arm while the connection between mark and blade is renewed. The feeling is powerful, but it turns his stomach. He has to let go of emotions to keep from vomiting. He allows the feeling to subsume him. Dean becomes the First Blade completely.

Crowley watches Dean stride toward him, the slim dark figure moving over the white ground as he trods across old graves, and the demon smiles inside while keeping his facial expression neutral. Dean is first, a lovely specimen, and second, a prize in the constant battle for power between Heaven and Hell. This Winchester had been harder to break than many others that had fallen to the King of the Crossroads' manipulative ways, but here he comes now, of his own free will, having completely swallowed the bait. He has become a tool that will answer to the power of the King of Hell. It does give Crowley the tingle.

"Well, come along, Winchester." Crowley barks out. "I need my champion here by my side. I don't want to be the only one standing here when the challenger arrives."

At that moment, the pieces fall into place for Castiel. This entire Knight of Hell scenario has been Crowley's manipulation of Dean Winchester, and that bastard knew all the right places to work to ensnare Dean, just like he had had Castiel's number when he convinced him to find Purgatory and seize the power of the souls. Dean has been too trusting once again, and Crowley has exploited that to make the perfect weapon in his fight for his domain, and the perfect bargaining chip.

Crowley saw that Dean, leader though he is, desperately needs to be needed. That Dean's broken pieces were loosely knit together by his feelings for others. By Sam turning away from him, by Castiel concentrating on Heaven without involving him, they had left Dean's soft spot undefended. They had cut ties and left him adrift.

Castiel wonders how much of this past year has been traps set by Crowley all along. The Seraph's eyes glint a steely blue as he slides his angel blade from his sleeve. It might be too late to save Dean, but it's not too late to kill Crowley. It is about time Crowley paid for his many sins, thinks Cas, as the battered avenging angel, the Winchesters' guardian, stalks toward the demon.

The trio is so wrapped up in the moment that they do not hear the deep rumble of the old black Chevy Impala as Sam drives along the road toward the cemetery gate, car bumping along the icy graveled road. Sam had not been that far behind, and he drove with much more speed and skill than the angel. He slams the car into park and pushes out the door, determined to be beside his brother, to make sure Dean sees that and knows that Sam is with him. With the demon knife in hand, Sam's long legs stretch to take him to where he belongs.

The air in front of Crowley shimmers as he lights the ingredients in the bowl, and when it stops, Abaddon is there. Her beauty is marred by her cruelty as the red-haired Knight of Hell stands straight, sneering at Crowley before her gaze darts over and takes in Dean. She rakes him over with her eyes, and her expression turns almost feral with lust.

"As if you didn't look good enough to eat before, Dean, you've added the Mark of Cain as topping on the tasty treat." Abaddon's tongue slips out to lick her lips. Dean snarls but stays put.

Crowley smirks. "Bow down before me and acknowledge me as your king, and I'll give him to you. You two can train up new Knights for me. I'll leave it up to you to determine who'll top."

It's Abaddon's turn to sneer, but her doubt creeps into her voice. "I doubt he is under your power enough to make that deal."

"And if he is?" Crowley asks, one eyebrow lifts as he stands casually, hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat. The demon finds it hard not to smile in triumph. Everyone has a price, and his deals always advance him. He believes he has found Abaddon's price, and for his effort, he will have two strong weapons in his arsenal.

The red-head eyes Crowley deep in thought; the world had changed so dramatically in the fifty-five years she had skipped when she followed Henry Winchester into the closet that it threw her off-balance. Abaddon had thought that Crowley was unworthy of sitting on the throne of Hell, but Hell had changed more than Earth. All the major demons, Azazel, Alastair, Lillith, had fallen to this man who stood before her now as Crowley's creature. Even her lord, Lucifer, had been defeated by the brothers. And now, this Winchester bore the Mark of Cain, a brand that marks him as chosen to be the new Father of Murder.

"Prove that he is." The words leave her almost against her will.

Crowley smiles. He has won. He turns slightly to take in the sight of Dean Winchester, the Righteous Man turned Knight of Hell. He can see the power of the mark outlining the man, filling the cracks, covering the light from a soul that had survived the tortures of Heaven and Hell. "Kneel." Crowley's command cracks out of him as he wields the power of the King.

And Dean kneels.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Yes, there will be deaths, but it’s not major character deaths. A/N: Hi Readers! Thank you, and extra special thanks to those who left reviews. It feels like writing to a void without feedback. It seems like a good time to remind you that I started this when the show introduced the Mark of Cain as my idea of where it could go – some friends were all guessing – and I said with Dean ruling Hell. So – my idea - probably very different than where TPTB will take it (but it is fun when I see glimpses of them thinking along the same lines.). I was going to end on a cliff-hanger on purpose because that’s how I would end Season 9, but I wanted to sort out some loose ends. Maybe over the hiatus I’ll write a sequel, but for now – I just want to concentrate on where the show’s going. Thank you again for reading. Much love.

 

Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches packed in lunch boxes, help with homework, stories read at bedtime, the cool hand on a hot forehead when you’re sick, the person who makes it to your play performances, and soccer games, who you spar with, watch movies with, drive thousands of miles with, fight countless monsters with, and who saves your life a million times. Folklore says that your life flashes before your eyes before you die, but Sam’s not dying, except inside.

The tall man sprints up the hill where his brother is kneeling on the white snow before the King of Hell, and it is Dean’s life – or rather the two of them’s interactions – that are flashing through his head as clearly as if he were watching a video. The only soundtrack is Sam’s own prolonged scream of fear. “Deeeaannn.”

Dean, his big brother, the best hunter who has ever lived, the most pig-headed stubborn mule of a man created, has surrendered to Crowley. Sam never imagined even in his worst nightmares that this could ever happen. He mentally kicks himself for not understanding how the Mark of Cain was affecting Dean, for allowing his brother to leave on his own, for leaving his family susceptible to Crowley’s manipulations.

Sam is going to lose his family again, just like he did when Dean and Castiel went to Purgatory, but this time Sam could have prevented it. He keeps moving, trying to close the distance.

Castiel is moving too, closer than Sam, the angel charges Crowley. The demon stands smirking until Cas buries the blade in his chest. “I told you I would make you pay if you betrayed him.” Castiel growls out before he is caught up in a swirling power and light show between his blue-white borrowed grace and the King of Hell’s chaotic red tendrils of power. One cannot just kill the King of Hell without the heavens, hells, and earth resounding. Crowley’s blood pours out of him hissing into the white snow.

The angel grunts as he forces the blade deeper, twisting it, and almost lifting the smaller man as power and whatever remains of life are left in a meatsuit after serving a demon for so long drains. Crowley clutches at Castiel’s hand. “Castiel.” He drawls out the word. “You forgot.” He coughs. “I’m a son of a witch, too.” Crowley is gasping trying to ready a final curse when Sam steps up behind him and uses Ruby’s knife to stab down into his head, sealing the demon’s mouth. 

The empty graveyard fills with spectators, including demons of every ilk. They stand as a silent audience, circling the figures on the hill. Above them the heavens fill with the lights and sounds of unvesseled angels. Joel comes back with Metatron and Gadreel. Sam pulls the knife back out and stoops down, catching Castiel under his arm and pulling him up. He turns both of them toward Dean.

Abaddon straightens, still contained in the summoning circle that Crowley used to compel her there. She starts laughing before calming enough to shout.  “The king is dead, long live the queen!” Her face, fine features, alabaster skin, red full lips, fill with a horrible other-worldliness as she readies to take on what she thinks will be uncontested control of Hell.

Dean sees all these demons, really sees them, and sees their real faces hidden beneath the flesh of dead people. Demons, reapers, Death and the other Horsemen are all there to witness. The graveyard is packed with them, and beyond that are the ghosts and the souls trapped in the veil. Dean knows what this means; it happened before – right before Hellhounds showed up to drag him to Hell. It rips at him, but he is resigned. He knows that he deserves Hell this time, and as he accepts it he feels stronger. The Mark of Cain has at least that much advantage to offer, as well as a means to an end.

“No.” Dean shakes his head as he stands, freed of the bondage with Crowley’s death. “No fucking way, bitch.” And Dean swings the First Blade like a machete. The ugly knife formed from an ass’s jawbone seems unwieldy, but this is a move that three decades of being in the hunting life has melded into muscle memory. Dean beheads her like he has so many monsters. And like so many monsters, she dies.

Once again Dean Winchester has acted without thinking. But not Sam, the younger man has already realized what Abaddon’s death will bring. Sam unthinkingly chants “no, no, no” as he clutches Castiel whose vessel begins to crumble, stolen grace draining away. Sam’s cry is for both his brother and his friend. The blood spatter from Abaddon’s body makes a large arc of crimson across the men and the earth as her head tumbles to the stained ground.

Sam gasps as the power of Hell engulfs Dean, lifting him into the air, back arched and a silent scream caught on his mouth as it surrounds him. Hell’s power latches onto Dean, previously marked, sealing him to that realm. The crowd of demons murmur. It sounds like “The king is dead, long live the king.”

The powers finally release Dean, but he’s standing there stunned. The audience watching has gotten bigger. Sam gazes around and he sees Joel standing by Metatron and Gadreel. Sam turns to the older angel, realizing that he must have been spying on them. “Fix him.” He demands, using his chin to point. Sam hefts Castiel and half-carries, half-drags him to the angels. “I said fix him!”

“So you did, twice.” Metatron sounds so pleased with himself that Sam wants to punch him. Metatron is really at fault for Cas’s current state. If the scribe had not stolen the Seraph’s grace, he wouldn’t be losing grace constantly, needing fresh batteries.

But it is Joel that Sam turns to. “You need to heal him. You owe him that.”

Joel moves closer and actually lays his hand on his forehead, pushing back messy dark waves. When he looks back at Sam there’s a malicious glint in his eye. “Why should I do anything for you, Sam? What in your past or these current situation makes you think the angels owe you anything?”

Before the older angel can move away again, Sam has raised Cas’s angel blade, nicking the man across the neck. Sam pulls the angel down almost onto Cas’s face. “Drink, Cas. Now!”

The angels look horrified as Castiel reaches out to take in the grace pouring from Joel. Metatron looks fascinated, and as Cas lets the empty vessel fall, the older angel, once scribe of God, catches his eyes. Ever since he expelled the other angels, only Metatron has been able to call on the powers of Heaven. It does not make him God, but he is more powerful than any angel on earth.

“I curse you, Castiel, a once proud and brave soldier of Heaven. You are cast out of our ranks never to re-enter our gates. Heaven must not be placed in jeopardy by you – seek your like where they were cast into Hell with Lucifer, the one-time Light-Bringer, whose rebellion was less unsavory than yours.” Metatron finishes up, smirking proudly at how he has now ensured that the ultimate rebel will never again see his home.

The smile fades quickly as he sees the fierce figure of Dean standing behind Castiel. Metatron has never been a warrior, but Dean was raised a warrior, and he now has command of the legions of Hell. The older Winchester shoulders his way between his sibling and the now fallen angel, plucking the angel blade from Sam’s hand along the way. Metatron is the closest thing to ruling heaven, but he isn’t God. Dean scares him, and he should.

Pointing the blade at Metatron, Dean makes his demands. “You, scumbag, open Heaven now and let these souls go where they belong. Then you take your dickbag angels and their battles and get the Hell off Earth, or you and me are going to throw down right now.”

Metatron squawks and moves behind Gadreel. “And if I don’t?”

Dean’s mouth turns up on one-side. He turns toward Castiel. “Hey, Cas, you still got directions to that cage?”

“No! Wait!” Metatron capitulates. “Just wait! I’ll go right now.”

“Better hurry,” Dean drawls. “Time’s wasting and I ain’t the most patient of men on a good day. This hasn’t been a good day and I’m not even sure if I’m a man anymore. So tick-tick.”

Metatron disappears with the sound of fluttering wings. He’s barely gone before Dean can see the souls turning their faces toward a streaming light. A team of Reapers start rounding them up and getting them moving toward the light.  Dean looks across the graveyard to Death, and they share a nod before the Horsemen all disappear. Dean doesn’t have any idea where they hide out, and he shakes his head to himself. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know.

Angels too take advantage of the gates being reopened and their vessels flop to the ground, groaning and disoriented. Dean reaches out and grabs Gadreel’s arm as he turns. “Not you, not yet anyway. You and a couple other of Metatron’s goons need to transport these people back where you guys found them. Can you do that? I mean, are you guys like all suited up with new wings and all?”

Gadreel nods, but he looks puzzled. “Why are you being nice to me?” He tilts his head slightly, and it reminds Dean so much of Castiel.

“I’m not being nice; unless you mean that I’m giving you the chance to clean up a mess you angel’s made.” He shrugs. “Just do it, and then get out of here. Go home. Overthrow the government there, whatever. Just go and don’t come back.”

Even with all the angels, vessels, souls, and ghosts gone, the cemetery is still crowded. Dean ignores them for a moment as he turns to Sam and Castiel. “You two okay?”

Sam can barely nod, his hazel eyes are wide and Dean can see the look that means the cogs in his brother’s head are spinning as he searches to make order and sense out of chaos.

Castiel though turns his stunned eyes to Dean, dismay apparent on his too pale face. “I’m, I’m not okay, Dean. I’ve become an abomination.” His mouth snaps shut as he looks deeply at Dean. He clears his throat. “As have you. Or rather, you’ve become the devil. King of Hell. Whatever you choose to call it.” The fallen angel looks around him. “And your army seems to be waiting to hear from you.”

“Yeah, umm, watch after Sammy for me for a minute. I need to take care of this.” Dean turns and strides away. The demons eyes all follow him as he finds a raised concrete crypt and climbs on top. Dean holds out the angel blade, using it like a pointer. Raising his voice to project out to the crowd, he asks, “Is this everyone?”

The demons look around, each one waiting for someone else to answer, until one of the older demons steps forward. He clears his throat. “This is those of us currently on earth, umm, sir.”

Dean can’t stop his mouth from twitching a little at that. “Just call me. Hell, I don’t know. Mister Winchester, I guess. Can’t have you all getting chummy. So, what’s your name?”

“I’m Beezlebub, um, Mr. Winchester.”

“No shit? The Lord of the Flies?” Dean realizes he sounds too impressed, and he gathers his dignity around him. “You going to give me problems?” He growls. “Cause you’re an old one, aren’t you?”

Beelzebub cocks his head at Dean. “You’ve killed many demons, including all my siblings, the first born, Lilith, Azazel, Alastair. You’ve killed the Seven Deadly Sins, and the Whore of Babylon. You’ve killed the Knight of Hell. Your servant, the fallen angel, killed the King.” He shrugs his shoulder. “You bear the Mark of Cain. You are worthy.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, well, thanks for that.” He looks around again and notices that the demons look afraid. That makes him sigh. He’d like to get this straightened out. But it’s going to take some time.

“Okay, then. You, Beelzebub. Dispatch a group to go let all the souls Abaddon collected out of their jelly jars. Then make sure every damned one of you gets back into Hell. Wait for me there. Got that?”

Beelzebub says, “Souls released, everyone else gathered in Hell. Wait for you there.” And he stands there still, looking at Dean.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” Dean’s impatience crackles through his voice, and as he starts to speak, he can feel Hell’s power coursing through him, making his words compel the demons. “Make it so!”

It doesn’t take long before with the stench of sulphur one group of demons leaves to carry out his demands while the rest turn into black smoke and disappear too, leaving dead bodies littering the cemetery. “Shit! I should have thought of that. Damnit!” Dean starts beating himself up as Sam and Castiel walk toward him.

“Dean? What are you doing?” Sam asks him. He looks almost faint as the implications of what he just saw wash over him.

Dean snaps at him. “Wondering how to get some of them back. Or a back hoe, or something. I am not digging that many graves!”

“Be serious, Dean!” Sam almost snarls at him. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

Castiel rolls his eyes and steps between them. “Dean, well, at least they’re in a cemetery. And Sam, I think it’s pretty obvious that your brother is figuring it out as he goes.”

_After the two Winchesters and their angel leave the graveyard with Sam driving the big, black Chevy, they end up in a little diner just outside of Lawrence, Kansas. Over coffee and pie, the trio starts to work out a plan._

_Sam pokes at his dessert watching his brother with a worried frown. “You’re leaving me.” His voice is plaintive and his eyes well with tears as the full weight of the situation falls on him._

_Dean sets down his fork, apple pie forgotten. “Yeah, man. Sammy, dude, I wish I could say you need to go live your normal life…”_

_Sam cuts him off. “Dean, I’ve already realized that’s not going to happen.”_

_The older brother cuts him off. “Let me finish. Okay. Cause I’m going to say I’m sorry one more time…”_

_The younger, but equally as stubborn brother cuts in again. “So am I!”_

_Before the brothers can start fighting over their apology, Castiel intervenes. “Will you too both shut up. You’re both sorry. Fine. Let’s deal with that later.” The Winchesters turn and both give the fallen angel a bitch face, but Dean’s lip starts twitching, thinking how like an exasperated father Castiel had sounded, and Sam glances over sideways and has to stifle a chuckle._

_“Okay, so can I speak now?” Dean asks in an overly meek voice. Cas glares, but the tension is broken._

_Straightening up, Dean takes on a military air. “The way I see it, we’ve won. The angels are back in Heaven, the souls can move where they need to, the demons are back in Hell. It’s everything we started out to do. There’s just some mopping up stuff to do.”_

_Sam’s been nodding in agreement. “And of course, the little issue of you being the new King of Hell.”_

_Dean glances at him and then down. “Yeah, that’s an unexpected complication. So’s feathers being an official fallen angel.”_

_The trio sit silent for a moment, until Dean starts again, determinedly upbeat. “But it’s a mopping up exercise now. The planet’s for people again, Sam. We always said that was the goal.”_

_Sam’s mouth twists. “What am I supposed to do without you, Dean? What if I never see you again?”_

_“What? Like we didn’t see Crowley?” Dean challenges._

_Castiel looks up to see if he’s going to have to break up another argument, but instead catches them sharing their emotions through their eyes, their love, and their regrets. The fallen angel takes out a notebook and starts writing._

_“I need you to get people trained up to handle the regular monsters, ghosts, werewolves, vampires, and all the rest. I think you should put that big brain of yours to good use and be like the Men of Letters’ Bobby. I mean, we did it, but some of it’s never going to be all the way done, and you’ll need to carry on the family tradition…” He trails off before he ends saying Sam will have to do it alone._

_“Jody will help, Krissy and her crew, and Garth. Bet you could get Aaron and his Golem, too.” His voice grows stern. “You’re not going to be alone.”_

_Sam bites his lip, but shakes his head. “Yeah, it’s important. I know.”_

_They fall into another silence, that of too many unspoken words instead of too little to say. Castiel interrupts it. “Here.” His deep gravelly voice breaks Sam’s reverie, and the taller man takes the papers Castiel has torn from his notebook. “I’ve written summoning incantations in case you need us. This is something you must train the next generation to know.”_

_Not wanting to think about outliving Sam, Dean breaks in. “Or, you know, just call me. We’ve got cell phones.”_

_“Dean, you know I didn’t want this. I was being stubborn and…”_

_Dean cuts him off again, holding out his hand. “No! No chick flick moments, Sam. This ain’t the end of the world anymore.” Dean starts out facile, but grows serious. He speaks quickly, trailing off and picking back up again.  “It’s going to be okay, Sammy. You’ll be fine without me there all the time. Just keep your phone handy, and, ah, figure a place outside the bunker we can meet because I’m not sure I can… And look after my baby. Oh, and if you use those damn summoning spells – you better have pie.”_

_Sam smiles. “Don’t I always remember the pie?”_


End file.
